Over the years, I’ve honed my skills atmen-reading. I used to beover-cautious, I have to be honest. But now, I get on well with all the men in the office, have nice chats with the barman in The Fiddler’s Elbow on Fridays, say hello to motorbike couriers who arrive, sweating in the office. But I still wouldn’t get into a lift with a man, any man. Even if I’ve known him for years. Politeness has cost many women too much. How often do women feel uneasy at getting into a lift alone with a man, yet do so all the same because not to would be rude?
In my world, be rude. Be as rude as you bloody like. I’m taking the stairs, mate.
‘See ya, Imelda,’ I say, as I head down in the blissfully empty lift. I pull my phone out of my pocket and look at it and there, top of the list, is a text from Finn.
Hey, Sid, would love to have a coffee. When are you thinking? This evening is good for me or tomorrow lunchtime?
Lunch was pushing it: in fact, lunch was outrageous, ripe with the sense of a date. Coffee was different. I stared at myself in the lift mirror. I looked OK. My hair did look messy, but then it often does as I run my fingers through it a lot and it’s not had a cut for ages. I haven’t seen my lovely old ladies in the salon for yonks. They’re pistols, those women. Seen it all, done it all and can still laugh. I hope I’m like that when I’m older.
I start a text to Finn and by the time I’m in the building’s reception, before I have a chance to really think about it, I press send.
Just finished work, been busy, yeah coffee, I can do a quick one, half six, seven, just for half an hour?
As soon as it’s gone, I cringe. But it seems the cringe factor isone-sided. His reply is instantaneous.
I’d love that, how about that little place on Nassau Street. Vanilla?
I know the one, sure.
See you there intwenty-five minutes?
Great.I stuff my phone back in my pocket and think:What have I done?
Everyone outside is windswept. I pull into a shop, find a mirror and decide that at least my eyemake-up has stayed on pretty well since half seven this morning. I like a goth eye: habitualultra-black liner, helped with espresso brown shadow and a hint of silver that brings out the silver in my eyes.
Vilma says she thinks I like this because it makes me look tough, which is actually entirely accurate. I want my eyemake-up to say what I could never say: watch out.
Anyone who thinksmake-up is all about sexual allure will never understand that for some of us, it’s our warpaint. Like tribal markings when the world’s first peoples marked their faces for battle. My eye liner is just the same.
Beware: that’s what I hope it says.
Vilma thinks I’m just one pair of leather trousers away from going to a heavy metal concert but says I’d look ‘cute’ in them.
‘I am not cute,’ I always say in retort. ‘It’s just I’m short and you’re tall, that’s all.’
Little is not all it’s cracked up to be, I’d like to add. It makes people think you’re soft. Hence the all black clothing and the goth eyemake-up.
I was soft once, yes. Not anymore.
I scan the rest of me. I’m wearing my normal work uniform of black shirt, black cardigan, of which I have loads in varying shades of greyness, and black jeans. Add to that my equally exciting black runners and black waterproof puffa jacket and I look like I’m hiring for a job as a band roadie.
My hair adds to the look: chaotic and a bit tough, I hope. Rain never bothers it, so I duck back out into the rain and driving wind, nearly at my destination. I have never been in this coffee shop and it’s up a laneway off Nassau Street. Presumably the sort of place college lecturers go at lunchtime to mutter about college politics.
When I get there, I see it’s a nice mixed crowd of people of all ages and colours. Finn is at the counter having an animated discussion with a tall woman with dreadlocks.
‘Sid,’ he says, and he smiles, a smile that really lights up his face, and I feel the weirdest quiver inside me, which is scary. I’m not sure where these feelings are coming from or what they are, but they’re not bad. There are no internal warning bells over Finn. Instead, I feel ... warm.
Firmly pushing down anynon-friend feelings, I say, ‘Hi, Finn,’ and give him a manly punch on the arm which comes out stronger than I mean it to.
‘Ow, what was that for?’
‘Friendly greeting,’ I say.
He introduces me to the girl behind the counter. We chat for a moment and she tells me the best coffee of the day is a lovely Colombian roast.
‘That’s what you always say, Asha,’ laughs Finn, and I look at him, eyes narrowed. Is he flirting with her? He’s older. She’s what –twenty-three,twenty-four? I stare at him, waiting to see something that backs up my suspicion, but he seems genuine. The familiar nervous quiver is somewhere inside me but it’s not emerging. Something is holding it back. My hands aren’t shaking at all.
‘Yeah, professor,’ says Asha loudly, ‘I say that because it sells well and I get more tips, trying to put myself through college here.’
