Coffee

‘Let’s go for a coffee. We could have a nice walk down by the river and get a coffee. Then we can walk back. I could cook us some tea and then we could watch a film tonight. I’ll check what’s on the television.’

This is how I’d spent my Saturdays for the last 8 months. I met her in a nightclub, it was all very romantic. I’d seen her across the dance floor, grabbed her arse on the way to the toilet and then spoken to her on the way back. Neither of us could recollect what we’d said but I’m sure that it was groundbreaking and not just the noises of two desperate bastards. After a few dates and a couple of awkward shagging sessions, we had found our rhythm. Saturday morning we would wake up and she would go for a run. I’d make a late breakfast and then we’d begin discussions about coffee. Sunday was much of the same but instead of coffee we’d go out for a roast dinner and she might not run. The week was filled with the occasional meal out or cinema trip but her workload, and occasionally mine, would often pull us to the sofa. Neither of us drank much and we both saw our friends fortnightly. It was a difficult way to live, purely because it was so simple. She treated me well and I treated her well, we laughed daily, but it felt like a waste. We would watch films and documentaries about painters and musicians, marvelling at the freedom and their expression. They would always talk about life as something to be played with. A medium with which you could do what you wanted. She would always comment to the effect of,

‘Could you imagine living in this way? Just forgetting about everything, all the attachments and hangers on, and actually pursue something truly fulfilling? It would be so liberating… but what if it didn’t work out? It would be so difficult, all that risk.’

I would usually agree and we would continue to watch. At these moments she was at her least attractive. It was tough enough living a linear life without hearing that she viewed true happiness as being ‘so difficult’. Her idea that she would have to ‘risk everything’ made me feel a little sad but also embarrassed. What would we lose from quitting our jobs and gunning for our dreams? She was a good painter but worked as a vet’s assistant. I played the guitar but was a clerical assistant. We lived in a two bedroom terrace and drove my dad’s old ford. She judged our lifestyle as something which was too precious to gamble. As if recreating our salaries through other means would be impossible. I would have gladly spun the roulette wheel for any alternative. But she wouldn’t and that’s why I didn’t.

One Saturday we were embracing the routine. I was walking by the river, watching other couples walk by, wondering how long each couple had stayed in the town for without leaving. A lot of the couples didn’t speak to each other and just walked by with an introspective glumness. It appeared that the nation had no real use for their spare time. I would hear staff at work discussing how much they were looking forwards to their city break. But what were they going to do whilst they were there? Look at a few sights, have a few meals out and walk by some river looking for a coffee shop. We all traded such a huge amount of our lives for time off which we were unable to use wisely.

These thoughts followed me into our cafe. The barista nodded as we walked in, like a prisoner officer who was familiar with the inmates doing yard time. I felt a deep shame but still nodded back. To be seen every week completing an activity which wasn’t at all productive or enjoyable did not feel good. I looked at all of the other couples inside the coffee shop. A lot of them stared out of the window, occasionally mumbling things to each other. They would often point at irregularities in the scene. A duck landing on the water or a boat sailing past tended to spark most people’s interest. We spoke about an upcoming wedding we’d been invited to and both gossiped about whether they actually liked each other or not. We’d seen the couple twice in a year and we had only witnessed one argument between them. The conversation ran dry and we walked home.

On the evening, after eating our dinner, we watched a live television programme. The presenter claimed that 8 million people had watched the show last week and thanked the audience for doing so. From GCSE Geography, I remembered that there were 60 million people in Britain. This had probably gone up a bit but it seemed reasonable to guess that 10% of the nation had watched the show. Given that there are hundreds of television channels, it was clear that this was what most of us were doing on a Saturday night. Just sat down, watching the screen, discussing how amazing it would be on it. – To actually be living but also content just to make those comments and accept that we weren’t.

That night I decided to drink heavily. The next day, in the depths of a hangover, she came up to me and told me the news. She was pregnant and about 6 weeks gone. I made the right noises and genuinely wanted to make them. I was to be a father. I would have a son or a daughter who I could show the world to, teach them how to live well and help them through the struggle. This was finally my purpose. I would take the child to the park and to the birthday parties of other children. Talk to other parents about a lack of sleep and maybe play badminton with some of them. This would silence my mind for a good 18 years as it would be tuned into the needs of another. I’d been released from boredom as my emotions would now be dictated by my child.

18 years passed and she went off to University. My wife and I now began our routine again. Coffee shops and roast dinners. 10 years later our daughter had her first child and we looked after him in the week. He then grew up and I became too old to fight against the coffee. I just kept myself fit enough to walk down the river and look at the world out of the shop window. Children had corked my desire to pursue excitement for such a long time that I no longer looked for it. I would just comment to my wife about the ducks and the boats, knowing that I was probably being judged by some bloke across the shop floor.