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‘I’ll clear my calendar for your wedding,’ I say with a wink.
She slaps my arm in mock reproach. ‘Finn! It’s way too earl—’
But at the sound of the changing room door opening behind me, her eyes light up and she never finishes her sentence. I turn around and see the man in question, in all his impossibly muscular glory. I’m pretty sure he’s part-mountain.
‘I’ll leave you guys to it. Have a good session,’ I say, shooting her a knowing smile and craning my neck to greet Jack as I pass. Jesus, the guy makes me feel like a cheese string.
I’m still grinning to myself as I get changed into my normal clothes. Because if I can’t be the one people fight for, at least I can watch it blossom for others.
How long can you act like a tourist when you move somewhere? Because it’s been months and I still feel like I’m in a movie every time I step on the Tube. Sure, in rush hour I occasionally fear for my life, and I’ve witnessed at least three people piss on the tracks at various times of day, but there’s avibe.
Plus, it has its own built-in hairdryer. I know this, because by the time I step off the train at Temple, my hair’s completely dry and decidedly windswept. Hopefully in a cool way, but we’ll see.
As I walk along the platform, I make a plan to stop off at the coffee shop opposite the office before I start work. I’ve spent the past few months whining to Julien about the lack of decent coffee in this city, but finally my prayers have been answered in the form of City Roast’s espresso. I’ve been served by two different baristas on my three visits; a friendly Spanish man who managed to convince me to buy both a muffin and a cookie with my drink both times I’ve seen him, and a tall, beautiful woman who seems like she’d shoot daggers from her eyes before she’d ever give me the time of day.
By the time I get to the ticket barriers, I realise this very barista is at the gate next to me, presumably on her way to open the shop. She taps her phone twice against the reader with a scowl when it doesn’t immediately register, lips pressed into a pout. True to form, the giant headphones she’s wearing tell me—and everyone else at this station—to stay far, far away. When we exit she heads left, taking the quickest route to work, and I make a detour to the right that’ll kill some time before the shop opens.
I start by walking through Victoria Embankment Gardens, where the flowers are in bloom and a handful of people are sitting on the benches, taking in the low thrum of the city before it wakes up. I sit for a bit too, enjoying the nice weather, before I text Julien.
You still up for tonight?
He responds almost immediately, one message after the other.
Shit, I’m so sorry
Can we do it another time? Or something else?
Promise promise promise I won’t flake again
I’m not particularly surprised by this. I’ve known Julien since we went to the same school in not one, but two countries as kids, and he’s never been great with following through on plans. But I don’t want him to feel bad, so I brush off the remnants of disappointment for the second time today and type out my reply.
No worries, see you in the office
I’d intended to visit a food truck in Shoreditch with him later. Knowing that my time here has an expiry date, I’ve been trying to cross items off my London bucket list before I go. Unfortunately, I’d envisioned most of this list to be completed with Julien, but I kind of forgot he had a life in London before I showed up, and this life wouldn’t be disrupted the second I got here. He’s a man of many hobbies, and even more whims. While he’s a data analyst at the same company as me for most of the week, the rest of his time is currently spent training to become a florist at the London Flower Academy. It’s a career change that is somehow both random andincrediblyon-brand.
So for now, I’m adding items to my list whenever I come across something cool. Occasionally I cross off an activity or location alone, but it’s just not as fun. I’ve never been great with my own company.
From the vantage point of my bench, the sights and sounds of pre-rush hour London wash over me like water in a pool, and I log them to memory, storing them in folders that I’ll open in a few years when I want to feel nostalgic about this nomadic period of my life.
After twenty minutes or so I amble towards the park exit, where I befriend a particularly excitable beagle. My ego soars to outer space when she bounds over to me at the exact moment her owner says, ‘Sorry, she’s usually wary of men.’
I discover the dog is eight years old, named Sally, and often pees herself when she gets too excited. I learn the latter fact firsthand, which her owner unnecessarily over-apologises for before we part ways. Invigorated by post-swim endorphins, the early-morning sunshine beating down on my shoulders and the imminent prospect of drinking a decent coffee, I’m ready to face the day.
4
hey Siri, how can I get someone to stop talking?
A V A
‘What a beautiful day!’a chirpy voice with far too much spirit for seven forty-three on a Wednesday morning interrupts my quiet restocking of the drinks fridge.
An unfortunate consequence of working in a coffee shop is that any time a customer walks through the door, I am overcome by a wave of potent rage. How dare they, a customer, approach me, an employee, requesting the service I am paid to provide?
The villain in question this morning is one of the three men who came into the shop late on Friday; the one with the unidentified accent. I cast my mind back to remember his name but come up empty.
‘Morning,’ I reply, trying in vain to summon even an iota of the energy he’s exuding. He looks infinitely more alive than I feel; bright eyes behind his glasses, mustard-yellow shirt, a singular curl dropping so perfectly across his forehead I assume he must’ve styled it to fall that way. ‘What can I get you?’ The fake smile I’ve plastered on my face probably looks more like a grimace, but it doesn’t seem to deter him.
‘Three flat whites to take away, please.’ He’s practically bouncing already. I get the impression his enthusiasm level is at a constant state of Golden Retriever. The whirs of the machine punctuate the LoFi song playing over the speakers, the smell of freshcoffee grounds permeating the air as I make the shots. ‘Did you have a good weekend?’
