Sunday mornings

Every Sunday morning I walk down to the main street of my little suburb. I say hi to the broom sellers and the street sweepers, I wave at the waiters getting ready for the day and I say a severe Good Morning to the black dude who walks to the same café as I.

He walks looking straight ahead, expressionless, and a little bit scary. I always think of him as a Nigerian drug lord.

I wait in the line to get my coffee, make small talk with the people around me and usually, someone compliments my dress or I compliment theirs.

He waits, strong, silent and distant.

I pick up my coffee and croissant, the black dude picks up his, we nod at one another and continue along our way.

He hides behind dark glasses.

I hide under my peak cap.

This morning was different.

As the barista made my skinny low foam double shot cappuccino, the guy took off his glasses. He looked me in the eye. He put out his hand.

‘This, young lady, has got to change.’

I took off my hat. I shook his hand. We smiled at one another.

We took our coffee to a table.

He’s not a drug lord.

And I’m not an ordinary suburban housewife.

11 thoughts on “Sunday mornings

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