Coffee cups and other disasters
Season two's eighth newsletter leads you into a dance of of quick witticism and banter hiding a longing that's hard to define, even to yourself
Greetings dear dreamers
Welcome to the second season of The Abandoned Dreams Collective.
There’s something about getting out of your usual habitat that sparks the imagination like nothing else.
Many years ago, a boy I found cute but had never spoken to in basketball class moved to Canada. For months then I’d find myself imagining a scenario wherein I’d be in Canada for work or study or a holiday and just come across him on a train journey.
A few weeks ago I went to Antwerp and a search for where I could get Harry Styles concert tickets delivered reminded me of a man I’d met too fleetingly having business interests in the region. For the days leading up, I’d keep imagining an “unexpected” encounter. Hell, I even wrote about it in the first post for this season.
A few days ago I had a work meeting in the middle of the day in a different part of town. Once again, my brain went into overdrive - would that same man make a guest appearance in this episode?
There’s something about going out of your usual pattern that opens up the possibility of your entire life changing, of somehow stumbling upon everything you’ve dreamed of that is hard to come by when you think of routine.
It is that hope of the unexpected that keeps us going despite all the mistakes, all the signs missed, all the reasonable reasons for not settling that haunt us. In this week’s essay, writer Rohini Alexandra walks us palpably through one such encounter.
Coffee cups and other disasters
I’m at the ‘The Light Box’ café and it’s the best time of day to be here. Sun streams through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, bouncing off the polished concrete floor. Stepping across the threshold, I ‘hmm’ appreciation at the pale wooden tables and bright green leaves jostling for space in the planters.
I take a door-facing booth- the spot I imagine Jason Bourne would take. Bourne wouldn’t feel sick like I do now. New Billie Eilish is playing. I breathe in and out in time with her vocals. I inhabit the coffee aroma, tasting sugar doughnut powder in the air. Listening to the grinding, I’m yearning for the imminent caffeine jolt.
I feel over-tightened straps digging into my ankles, static prickling my legs despite the spray, palms sweaty like Eminem before the rap battle. I wipe my hands on a serviette, distancing them from my cornflower blue silk shirt. My stomach flips like I’m about to start an exam, and I don’t mean one of the online multiple-choice type. I want to leave but it's too late, I might run into him on exit. Damn. Is it acceptable to publicly adjust a padded bra?
What am I even doing here? If only I hadn’t wasted my opportunities over the years. I start ruminating over words left unsaid, gestures ignored, electricity stifled. I thought I had all the time in the world. I let second-tier issues like rules of the human resources department, or the incompatibility of time zones derail my dreams. I fold my scarf into my tote bag as regret permeates every cell of my body.
I’m tempted to take out my phone to stare at the post my ex-boyfriend recently made about his wife and his three-year-old son, but I know it’s only going to reinforce my status as the perpetual outsider. I’m still wearing the fitness tracker he gave me, even though the step counting function doesn’t work anymore. With some difficulty, I leave my phone in my bag.
I always thought that by now, I’d be smugly married with three kids, a senior executive role, and an awesome side hustle. I’d be the proud owner of an inner-city apartment and a beach house. My well-heeled friends would mingle over vintage champagne and cheese boards in my dining room.
Instead, here I am, my CV as bare as my Christmas card list, meeting a stranger in a cafe that he chose, a significant distance away from both my home and my office - but close to his. I picked him partly because his spelling was better than that on many of the other profiles. How is bad spelling even a thing since the advent of spellchecker? ‘I’m a loser,’ I think.
Even so, there is something that hits different within me. I don’t know what this quicksilver is, but it seems sunshiny. I chase it though the hills and valleys of my mind until I catch it: hope.
My nervous heart beats even faster now that I grasp I’ve become invested in this date. Maybe he’ll be the missing piece of my puzzle, the spark to my flame, the mirror to my … I get distracted by someone dropping a plate, but I know what I’m missing. It’s the harmony of two people singing a beautiful duet together.
He walks in and knows it’s me. I’ve seen his photo, so I’m not surprised, but in person he could pass for a daytime television star. I keep my eyes focused in the appropriate zone. I see hair colour dirty blonde and matching stubble. Looks like he’s carrying some type of man bag. I’ll overlook that.
I epic fail a quasi-military hand signal. I jam on my best smile, the one that shows where all the Invisalign cash went. I stand up and he’s there in a flash. It doesn’t seem right to kiss a stranger. Are we allowed to shake? I offer my hand. His palm feels too soft to authenticate that off-duty tradie vibe.
We sit down, but it’s busy and the young waiter hasn’t approached me since my arrival. I hope Blonde doesn’t commence with the ‘What do you?’ question, but he does. It always takes me ages to understand what people do, job titles have morphed to obscure tasks performed. ‘Cloud sherpa’, ‘data governance’, that kind of thing. The soundtrack changes to Beyoncé and my game levels up as her familiar vocal fills the conversational gaps.
I want a flat white but Wagyu burgers and pandan waffles distract me. What are golden bubble tea and wattle seed chai? Channeling opening night stage fright, I wait until post-order to switch to vaudeville, changing topics like a Kardashian changing clothes on a social media post. He keeps up with every obscure film reference, every anime meme. My confidence grows exponentially as he laughs and laughs. Not gonna lie, his teeth are even better than mine. I flick my hair, twist my lucky necklace charm. Maybe I should have worn the double-cuff shirt. I make a mental note to wear it next time.
The lovely young waiter delivers the drinks. I’m on fire with how well Blonde and I get along. Blonde stares into his cup like he’s Superman using his heat vision on villain of the week. I can’t see his watch face. Maybe I should ask the time to break the silence, despite two Nordic-style clocks in my peripheral vision. Nah, he might notice I’m wearing multiple timepieces
.
I scan the surroundings like a Covid monitor at the football game. How long can the liquid resist his gaze? I bounce my heels nervously on the clinic-white tiles. Is it an almond milk thing? Did he forget a lactose intolerance? I ready my anecdote about the time my ex-fiancé was mistaken for Mark Wahlberg in a New York Starbucks.
His coffee coma passes, and he says, ‘It’s the wrong drink.’
They take coffee seriously in this town, but surely, he’ll drink it anyway. Nope.
‘This isn’t a latte, it’s a cappuccino. Bring a latte,’ he says to the young waiter, who nods and scurries back to the baristas.
Blonde accepts fresh coffee without grace or thanks but is keen to broadcast.
‘I’m not going to pay for either coffee,’ he tells the young waiter.
The young waiter is sixteen and dumbfounded.
‘I’m sorry sir, I’m sure that’s fine,’ he recovers.
I blink, struggling to understand exactly what just happened. I’m unexpectedly aware of my contact lenses. It feels like little pieces of grit have taken up residence near my eyeballs.
Justin Bieber’s lyrical wisdom blasts. I’m relieved Blonde must get to his eleven o’clock in the office tower upstairs. I’ve heard its socially acceptable to touch anyone on the upper arm, and it seems over-formal to re-shake. As he stands, I grip his upper arm and my eyes lock with his infinity pool blues. As I feel his arm, I wish I hadn’t touched him again.
‘Nice to meet you,’ I intone, ‘thanks.’
I drop my hand and bow very slightly. I show the smile I sometimes give to missionaries who approach me on the street.
‘Likewise. Catch up again soon.’
As advertised, he doesn’t approach the cashier. As he walks out, I gape at his boots and jeans with a level of regret I haven’t experienced since the day I drove home and found my drive-through order twenty nuggets short. I tip my head and watch the light changing angles, irritation rippling from curled bangs to cramped toes. I could have been working from home, ping-ponging emails, wearing glasses and flats.
My disappointment with his true personality is commensurate with my relief that the appointment is over. Are my standards too high? Should I settle for a partner who thinks it’s okay to disrespect teenage waitstaff earning minimum wage? ‘Breathe, breathe,’ I think.
Would he be the kind of dad who would abuse the basketball referee at the primary school game? I imagine myself standing on the sidelines of the basketball court rolling my eyes at his rudeness, later screaming profanities at him after the kids have gone to bed. It would be embarrassing to be publicly associated with a person like him, regardless of that on-point workwear. I close the sliding door in my mind. Maybe this means I’ll be alone forever.
I dab the corner of my eyes with a serviette. I’m not experienced enough with contact lenses to take them out without a mirror. I take out my phone. I’ll use the camera to check for grit in my eyes. A text hits as I look at the screen: ‘You’re hot, but too pop culture for me. Regards.’
Not even ‘Kind regards.’! My humiliation is complete. I curse under my breath. I block his number and drop the phone on the table, where it clatters surprisingly loudly.
The friendly supervisor looks up from his table-wiping and ambles over, extensive tattoos and double denim uniform. ‘Hi,’ he stage-whispers, ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to charge you for his coffees.’ A silent thunderclap of relief; my laugh over-loud. ‘Sorry about that,’ I say, swivelling for the young waiter, but the place is emptier than my chocolate biscuit tin at home. I try to place his accent. Brazil? Tattoos inches closer, fixes hazel eyes on mine and murmurs while light dances on his diamond earring. The rest of the world goes out of focus. ‘It’s fine, he comes in here all the time and he’s a real jerk, more Hulk than Bruce Banner.’
My smile returns without effort. An invisible charge sparks somewhere between us. I feel butterflies in my stomach. ‘Doctor Banner you mean!’ He nods apologetically and grins. ‘My coffee was beautiful, organic beans?’ He sits opposite me, rummages in his apron’s kangaroo pouch, and then holds out his fist. Bemused but enjoying the suspense, I extend an open palm to catch the gift and bring it to my face. A little silver twist, Hershey’s kiss, slightly warm.
-Rohini Alexandra
Abandoned on the interwebs
Abandoned on the interwebs is a new section on this newsletter where I recommend some riveting, spine tingling, evocative articles, books, essays that I’ve stumbled across when I’m left to my own devices on the internet.
Kitchens of the Great Midwest - As you've likely gauged from my waxing eloquent, I love the idea of small decisions, last minute changes, unexpected encounters bringing you where you're supposed to be and this book that I don't know how I found brings a magical realism element to this.
Life beyond the buzz - Underneath the witticism, the self deprecating banter and the pop culture references, this week's essay had a hidden sense of anguish and longing for something the writer can't quite define yet that I related to deeply and had found present in this piece I read a few weeks ago.
Before I leave you to dream
With the aim to continue growing this newsletter, I’ve set up a page where you can contribute monetarily: Ko-fi.com/theabandoneddreamscollective
This will support the newsletter grow through increasing reach, growing its pipeline of contributors, optimize submission management and eventually pay contributors.
I hope you consider contributing to this mission.
That’s all for this week
I look forward to seeing you again next week with a new story.
Much love and many dreams
Nirmitee
The Abandoned Dreams Collective