I was the only customer, somehow finding myself in the café even before the exceptionally early predawn opening time. Or was it the all night café, where all the small (vast) hours’ city chaff gathered? I asked for a paper cup of the Trinity of coffees, a triple express, ‘to go’, destination unknown; I needed a surge of The Holy Ghost in me.
She put down her book, glanced at the suitcase on the floor. “That’s a brave case. Did ye paint the white on yourself? Looks like something from a circus or maybe on a stage.” “I know, I know…”, I said resignedly as one who had heard such comments before, enjoying her familiarity, nudging the suitcase dismissively with my foot as if to alert it to the compliment, or to demonstrate to both her and the dumb impedimenta that perhaps it was not so universally esteemed, indeed expendable.
As a faint ray of saffron dawn charged the cafe, she slid the cup across the counter, asking me if I wanted a receipt. I told her I was not that type. “No worries.” she murmured. No worries. But as I plunged, shouldering the glass swing door open, leaning faintly against the renewed, insistent weight in my right hand, into the wind that had suddenly risen outside, I heard her call, faintly, “Take care!”
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