Coffee girl

I sell frappacinos to restaurants. It pays better than journalism and I’m in London for a good time, not politics.

The girl who serves the coffee at one of my new clients in Chancery Lane takes my breath away (literally. As in, I forget to breathe). She’s definitely gay. I’m never wrong. Except that one time when I was wrong about my first “girlfriend”. ("Just because I let you fuck me doesn’t make me gay,” I think is how she put it.)

So Coffee Girl wears these sexy glasses over intense blue eyes. She sports dusty, short and funky hair. She’s lean and has a tribal pattern tattoo stretched across her lower back. To top it all, she has a foreign accent. Mmm. Spanish, Italian, somewhere like that, but who cares! It’s not English! I saw her and I was like a toddler stretching for an unreachable toy. All I could say in my head was: “Me want!”

I had to train Coffee Girl and the manager in how to make the frappacinos when the restaurant closed. Perfect. My chance to seduce her.

I looked nice that day. I look nice most days except that today I also applied mascara and lip-gloss. I don’t do those during the daytime, see? I wore linen pants, a tight white T-shirt and even a necklace.

When I arrived, the manager was cleaning up downstairs so he left Coffee Girl and me upstairs…alone. She was sweeping. I was pretending to read, but every time she turned her back I stared at her.

Have you ever watched someone sweep before? The body movements. Back and forth, back and forth. Both hands jerking off a broom. She’s bent over, tattoo to the sky, ass clenched, going back and forth on her thighs!

As she moved nearer my table, I realised that now would be a good time to stop staring and say something. So I stood up. I don’t know why. But I just stood there and watched her sweep. She didn’t mind. So I nodded while watching. I don’t know why. It’s like something you do before you’re about to say something, isn’t it?

Fluffy: It’s dirty.

Coffee Girl looks up confused.

Fluffy: The floor [points to the floor]. It’s dirty.

Coffee Girl: Ah! Yes, it gets virry durty.

Silence.

Astrid to fluffy: I hate you.

Fluffy: It must get even dirtier when it rains.

Coffee girl’s blue eyes are confused again.

Fluffy: Then people walk in with wet shoes…

Astrid to fluffy: I really, really hate you.

Coffee girl: Ah! Yes! Is virry bud then.

And that was it. That was all I could muster. Then she disappeared downstairs.

By now Fluffy was immersed in self-hatred and Astrid was stepping in to talk to the manager and charm him, and be a good saleswoman, and all that. But then, while we were walking down this narrow flight of stairs to get to the kitchen, Coffee Girl was walking up them.

I was busy chatting away to the manager, but Fluffy noticed that Coffee Girl’s toned arm brushed mine as we passed each other, which threw me off completely. So I slipped, and my ass slapped against five steps before I could grab the railings to stop.

I laughed it off and made jokes about how I’m the clumsiest person on earth blah blah blah.

Fluffy was suicidal.

After I did the stupid training, I was packing up my stuff as Coffee Girl washed my blender jugs in the sink. When she handed them to me, she smiled and said: “You knaw, when I firrst stut here, I going down stirrs wit big sack potatoes and I [she didn’t know the word slip so she mimicked my fall from earlier] down stirrs and potatoes jus go boof boof boof everywhere.”

I stood there looking at her, imagining us entwined naked on those stupid stairs, bodies fiercely moving against each other, rushing to climax before opening time and all I wanted was to ask her out.

Just get a normal conversation going that lends itself to a: “We should go out sometime.” Where do you come from is always a good icebreaker. Say it! Ask her where she comes from.

Fluffy: (nodding) Potatoes!

And that was it. That was all I could muster. Then she disappeared upstairs.