I walk to my favourite coffee shop most mornings. The coffee’s good and the WIFI is free. There’s a girl that sits on the couch to my left. She stops my breath. Tousled blonde Amelia Earhart haircut, red apple winter-flushed cheeks and ink-stained piano fingers. Her clothes are incoherent Oxfam winter layers that seem fished random from the laundry pile, like a librarian that secretly plays bass cello in her bedsit.
She hardly knows I exist. The only words she's said to me are "is that your dog?". I just stood there, dumbly mumbling-talking like someone playing scrabble in oven gloves. She resumed, staring at her Mac, biting her bottom lip with the expression of someone engrossed in a crossword.
I haven’t started making mix tapes to her in my head yet, but she’s on my mind. If she leant forward, looked in my eyes and said, ‘Let’s leave town, tonight.’ I’d drop everything. I’d follow her to Margate.