So, I do it anyway.
‘Hey!’ I say to his back, my voice slightly louder than it should be. My instincts are screaming at me to be quiet – to hush up, to take it, to silently fume instead of saying something. He ignores me, so I do it again. ‘HEY!’
This time the man turns, looking mildly surprised and irritated. He looks me up and down, his expression vaguely repulsed. ‘What?’ he snaps.
I open my mouth to say sorry. To ask him nicely if he made a mistake. If he somehow missed the long line of people waiting patiently for their turn. To offer him the option of pretending.
No, not this time.
‘You just pushed in,’ I point out. ‘There’s a queue and that’s not okay. We’ve all been waiting; you can’t just shove your way in like that.’
‘I’m in a hurry,’ he enunciates like I’m stupid and I feel the pulse of fury that wants to hurt him, fighting with my cognitive dissonance-y instinct to whimper and apologise.
‘We’re all in a hurry,’ I explain calmly. ‘Nobody is thrilled to be standing here in a queue. Nobody came here just to stand here wasting important life minutes. But it’s fair. Waiting your turn is the right thing to do.’ I pause as he eyeballs me with antipathy. ‘So please go to the back of the queue and wait, like everyone else.’
He rolls his eyes and turns back to the counter. ‘Get over yourself,’ he mutters, giving none of the shits. Gnarly rage bubbles up in my belly, furious and freeing.
I clear my throat. ‘Dude, I can’t force you to be a good person,’ I tell his back loudly. ‘But I’m telling you as clearly as I can that this is really crappy behaviour and karma is coming for you.’
‘Oh, give it a rest! It’s not the end of the world! I’m in a hurry, I need a coffee, okay, love?’ he laughs, not even bothering to turn and face me.
‘DICKHEAD,’ Sam yells, emboldened by my bravery.
‘Stupid cow,’ the man mutters back, but his tone is quieter, less sure of himself. A single, isolated woman calling him out – telling him off – is one thing, but two? That is harder to ignore; harder to bully.
Jools joins in. ‘Get to the back of the line, you stupid arse,’ she barks.
‘Yeah!’ comes a small voice from the back of the room.
A woman behind us takes a step forward.
‘You’re all being way more polite than I would’ve been,’ she tells us, her face dark and thunderous. She turns to speak to the man’s back. ‘You are amassivedickhead and a totalarse,’ she tells his shoulders, and we watch them tighten as the woman continues. ‘Why do you think you’re better or more important than the rest of us here? Why is your time more valuable? I bet you do this all the time, don’t you? I bet you spend your life shoving women out of the way just because you can, and because of course you matter more. I bet you just parked your car out there on double yellow lines, and I bet it’s a garish metallic Range Rover with a personalised number plate that makes you feel special and important.’ Her face is full of pent-up anger, as glorious insults pour forth. ‘And I bet you’re in a rush because you’re late meeting your mistress at a seedy Travelodge where you’ll bitch about your poor wife who openly hates you. I bet you buy women horrible red lingerie sets in the wrong sizes and make comments about how much they eat. I bet you text while driving and I bet you chew with your mouth open. I bet you interrupt your female co-workers and take credit for their ideas. I bet you play loud games on your phone on busy trains.’ Jools, Sam and I watch the woman with awed expressions as she keeps going, a torrent unleashed. ‘I bet you complain about women taking maternity leave but would be disgusted by the idea of paternity leave or joint parental leave. I bet you suddenly have to go to the loo whenever your wife asks you to do something, and then sit there having a poo for forty-five minutes. I bet you spit in public and tell women to smile. I bet you send unsolicited dick pics. I bet you—’
‘Shut up!’ he yells at last in a shrill voice, still facing away. He leans across the counter, his energy desperate. It’s clearhe wants to get away now as murmurs begin across the rest of the angry queue of mostly women. ‘Hurry up with my order,’ he barks at the young barista. She takes a step towards him, her face cold.
‘They may not be able to stop you queue jumping,’ she says quietly, ‘but I can. My name’s Karma and I won’t be serving you. Please leave and don’t come back.’
There is a moment of shocked silence and then the queue erupts into a loud cheer. Whoops and scattered applause follow as Jools, Sam and I beam at each other, feeling the release of our righteous anger.
The happy noise around the room continues as the man slinks his way, red faced and furious, towards the door. He runs out and for the hills, as a few of the queue women follow, throwing themselves at the window to catch the last of his hasty exit. ‘He was parked in adisabled space!’ one yells joyfully. ‘And there’s no blue badge, he’s justthatentitled.’
‘Of course he is!’ another yells over. ‘And I can confirm he does indeed have a metallic paint job and a personalised number plate. Hold on.’ She presses herself against the window, squinting hard. ‘It says B1G BO1. Big boy?! How cringe!’
Everyone is laughing and shouting, full of cathartic joy and unfamiliar power. My friends and I regard each other silently, our faces sparkling with joy.Look at what we did, we tell one another without speaking.Look at the power we have when we are together.
At the counter, the barista hands us three hotchocolates – on the house – and we tip her heavily, smiling conspiratorially at one another. As Sam and I head for the exit, we find Jools deep in conversation with the other women of the queue. She shoos us away, promising to meet us back at the office, and I catch snippets of noughties war stories. She is recruiting for the forthcoming war.
As Sam and I wander slowly back in the direction of my office, I consider how much better I feel. That was all me back there, being brave and saying my piece with dignity. And I want to give myself credit for it – but I also know I wouldn’t have done it without his help. Without Edward. I look down at the overloaded hot chocolate in my hand, steam melting through the mountains of cream, and I think of his mum’s cakes. How generous she was and how sweetly he spoke of her. Such a green flag. I think about his loud, warm family, who all rushed together in that moment of crisis. I think of Edward’s hilarious brother, Jake, who wears all his neediness on his sleeve, in such an endearing way. I think of how he brings out that soft, big brotherly side to Edward; the one who likes to be teased and plays board games without getting competitive. I think about the family shampoo they all use that fell off the back of a lorry and must be years out of date. And how they all have such nice hair. I think about the way Edward undid those shirt buttons just before we kissed.
I think about him all the way back to the office, and collapse on my sofa, where, all at once, it hits me.
This isn’t transference. The way I feel about Edward – this gooey, pathetic, marshmallowy feeling – it’sreal. I have realfeelings for him. I fancy the three-piece suited pants off him, but more than that – Ilikehim. He’s a good person! He’s kind and sweet, and curious in a non-judgemental way. And he knowsa lotare two separate words. I’m not misdirecting my emotions, and it’s not that he’s my hot therapist, I just plain… like him.
Did I mention he’s also sexy as fuck?
He’s not like the men I’ve liked before. I’ve always chosen emotionally unavailable men, and yes, Edward is unavailable in other ways. But he’s also open with people he cares for –so open! – never mind evolved and kind.
And if we’ve finished our sessions together, maybe it doesn’t have to be unprofessional anymore to ask him out. To kiss him. To try.
