latté

I taste the latté in the earthenware cup in front of me and realise, to my amusement, that I’ve inadvertently ordered regular instead of small. No big deal, but there will soon be two shots of espresso rushing into my bloodstream. For someone with a dairy intolerance who gave up caffeine four years ago, it’s the equivalent of Russian roulette with my insides. I try to put the thought out of my head and break off a piece of concrete biscotti. The combination of sweet almonds and bitter coffee is almost too much to take. I shouldn’t have come back here, to our café, so soon... Mario had been pleased to see me, leaning over the counter to kiss my china-doll cheek. He said I looked good, and I feigned a smile, grateful for his lie but fading under the spotlight of his attention. I wondered how he knew, perhaps one of the regulars, or Marina the Saturday girl who knows my neighbours, or he might have seen the story about the accident in the newspaper.

[this is an excerpt from a short story I'm working on about a girl whose boyfriend has died two months before - watch this space!]