I Unlove You (14 page)

She nods.

“
Thank God,
”
I say, going past the
point of no return and licking the stray coffee drops from my
lips.

Coffee
’
s caffeine no longer
affects me, my unrequited love occurring at too young of an age.
Where Joey dreamed of pubs and sneaking into bars, I longed for
coffee shops and dark corners where I could write and draw. My mind
couldn
’
t comprehend Dylan Thomas sat in a bar with his
notebook before him. Or Hemingway. Or Kerouac. Alcoholics, the lot
of them, but all my imagination conjured was an artisan coffee
shop, a petite cup of espresso, and darkened walls adorned with
wonderful paintings.

My
addiction and fixation towards the dark stuff becomes more apparent
each day. It highlights another reason why pregnancy fails to
appeal. After all, who wants to double in size, be unable to sit
down without the help of others, or push a football-sized object
out of their nether regions? The thought of no coffee for months on
end? No, I couldn
’
t do it, and I feel
for
B
, because she, too, loves coffee, but not in the same vein
as me.

“
How on earth will you cope
working here?
”
I say, breathing in the fresh, bitter smell of ground
beans.

She
sighs again, pushing her hot chocolate further across our
ankle-height table.
“
I don
’
t want to think
about it. I may have to quit.
”

“
You can
’
t quit this
place. You love it here.
”

“
You love it
here,
”
she says, reaching above her head and removing a book from
one of the many bookshelves dotted around the room.
“
You could
take over my shifts and fulfil your dream job.
”

“
I wouldn
’
t want to
ruin the mystique,
”
I say.

“
What
mystique?
”
she laughs.
“
This place is too small to have
mystique.
”

“
Are you kidding?
”
I say, motioning my
hands from our table to the cobbled-together counter a few feet to
my right.
“
A place like this defines romance, with its antique,
individual tables, some too small, others too big; and the way the
lighting is never quite right: too bright on a sunny afternoon, too
dim in the evening with lamps older than the both of us; and how
the bookshelves don
’
t match, nor the
cups or plates or the candles.
”
I continue, my hands dancing along
with my words.
“
You don
’
t decide to create
something like this, it evolves. If I was to work here,
I
’
d lose that intrigue, just like you have. Remember,
you once loved this place as much as I do. More so,
even.
”

“
Nobody loves this place like
you,
”
she says, leaning on her knees. The room
’
s shadows
cast half her face in darkness, whilst the sun screaming through
the window illuminates the rest.

“
You used to,
”
I say, brushing a
stray strand of hair away from her cheek.

“
You think you know me so well,
don
’
t you?
”

“
I do know you so well.
There
’
s nothing about you I don
’
t
know.
”

“
Is that so?
”

I nod.

“
Well, I
’
m afraid I have
bad news for you, mister, because every girl has
secrets.
”

“
Even from
me?
”

“
Especially from
you.
”
She winks.

“
I see. Well, at least I have
coffee.
”

“
Cruel.
”

Crossing my right leg over my left thigh, I smile.
“
You know,
you won
’
t be able to keep it a secret from these guys
for long,
”
I say, angling my eyes towards the
counter.

“
Are you saying
I
’
m getting fat?
”

“
No. I think your coffee-less
diet will give you away long before your body
does.
”

“
I hadn
’
t thought about
that.
”
She bites her lip.
“
I guess we better tell
everybody soon.
”

“
Yeah, I guess
so,
”
I say, recalling the night at my parents
’
.

After the initial shock settled, the rest of the evening,
and indeed the days since, passed without incident. Talking
about
B
’
s
symptoms, and listening to my father share stories of when
I was in the womb, we laughed and smiled and celebrated like a
family. Although the time will come to create plans and discuss
money and birthing processes, it wasn
’
t
then.

Regardless, my mother remained
quieter than usual, her eyes unable to hide her worry. I think my
father sensed this, for he barely shut up all night.

“
When your mother first told me
she was pregnant, I was listening to Beast of Burden by the Stones.
I
’
ve never been able to listen to that song the same
way,
”
he said.
“
I remember our first trip to the doctor, and how
nervous I was. I just knew they were going to find an extra finger
or thumb,
”
he continued, sharing one story after
another.

“
The moment I first saw
you
…”
he trailed off, smiling and kissing my
mother
’
s cheek.
“
You two will be great
parents.
”

As
a fresh batch of beans rumble inside the coffee grinder, I
watch
B
observe the world outside. A woman passes with her hands
full of hemp bags, a man manoeuvring out of her way, a newspaper
under his arm and tweed jacket draped over his shoulder; a group of
teenagers across the street, peering into the bookshop window; the
sun bright and tempting, passing into the coffee shop and bathing
the room in a multitude of long-reaching shadows.

“
How do you
feel?
”
I
ask
B
, her attention still outside.

I
hate how this place has become just another coffee shop to her. We
used to come here every Sunday, chatting and kissing and lounging
in the same chairs we sit in now. The long shifts of endless
latte-making, serving the same people each time; the staff, who
once begin here, never seem to leave; the cramped and hot kitchen;
and the haggard furniture I see as beautiful, yet sense she finds
tacky
…
it stole the magic. Where we once stared out of the window
together, imagining the stories of each passer-by, she now looks
with longing, as though she
’
s desperate to
escape.

It
’
s the same look she wears when she runs, intent
and reaching for something she can
’
t wrap her fingers
round.

“
Pretty good,
”
she says.
“
I was only
sick once this morning, so I think the worst of it might be
over.
”

“
That
’
s great. Just
the hormones to look forward to now.
”

“
Of course. And the cravings.
And late night bathroom breaks. And generally making your life
miserable.
”

“
Oh, yes, we
can
’
t forget the last one.
”

“
Don
’
t worry, I
won
’
t.
”

I lift my coffee to my nose and
savour the smell.

“
Stop it,
”
she says,
laughing.
“
It
’
s your job to be nice to me.
”

“
Is that so?
”

“
Absolutely. Why else do you
think I
’
m keeping you around?
”

“
I don
’
t know. Love,
maybe?
”

She
huffs.
“
Don
’
t be crazy. Love has nothing to do with
pregnancy.
”
She winks once again.
“
How about you? How are
you feeling?
”

“
I
’
m
fine,
”
I say, and although I feel as though I should be manic with
panic, I am fine. A strange, peaceful, somewhat apathetic
fine.

“
How about last
night
’
s chat with Joey?
”
she asks, tilting her
mug of hot chocolate.

Picturing his hunched over figure and slouched shoulders, I
smile.
“
Interesting. It
’
s as if
he
’
s the one who got you pregnant.
”

“
Jesus. Can you imagine that boy
suffer through parenthood?
”

“
Not really.
”

She laughs, shaking her head and
sipping her drink.

Each conversation with him starts the same way of
late:
You
’
re ruining our
lives
…
we
’
re too young for all this
…
how could you do this
to us
…
as though it
’
s the two of us
awaiting fatherhood.

“
Brother,
”
he spat last night,
pushing his near-empty pint glass from one hand to the
other.
“
You
’
ve allowed your potent man-potion to create
life, and, in doing so, end your own.
”

“
Do you have to refer to it as
man-potion?
”

“
Yes. And I don
’
t understand how
you
’
re so calm. I
’
m freaking out,
which means you should be, too.
”

“
I
’
m sorry to
disappoint you,
”
I said.
“
But nothing has changed. I mean, how different can
life be?
”

“
What the hell is wrong with
you? Everything has changed. Have you figured out where
you
’
ll live yet?
”

“
No.
”

“
What about nappies and milk,
and what to do if a baby shits on a vinyl record? Do you know how
to clean shit off of a vinyl record?
”