Early in the morning, the wind was ghastly cold and the unrelenting rain which hit the asphalt seemed to land in waves, making the roads looked like textured mirrors. Standing on the street corner waiting for the bus, my jeans were beginning to get uncomfortably wet. The cafe behind me was still closed — being much too early — though a few dim lights were on. Waiters preparing for the day, I guessed.
I was counting taxis as they passed, wondering how many I should let go before I should give up waiting, when suddenly the door of the cafe opened and one of the waiters stepped out. He made a face at the weather, and I recognised him as the soft-spoken guy who'd served me some Sunday breakfasts ago, where on one occasion, I'd written down the author and the title of the book I was reading for him on a convenient piece of napkin.
To my surprise, he headed straight towards me. "Here, have some green tea," he said, and pulled out from nowhere a polystyrene cup with an ill-fitting lid and a dangling green tag on the side. Shoving it into my hand, barely giving me time to say thanks, he disappeared back inside.
I stared at the expectant white cup in my hand, grappling the umbrella with the other, as if it were magic. I tried to look for the waiter through muddy reflections of the cafe's windows, if only to be able to flash a smile of thanks, but saw nothing and no one. In my hand, the cup felt warm. At that moment, it was as if the contents it willingly carried returned everything that had been taken from me.
Posted by sniffles at September 29, 2003 01:08 AM
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