The Bump Into

We met inside Joe’s Coffee House. Well, technically, in the doorway of Joe’s Coffee House. She wore a bright blue dress with a decorative floral print (which, by the way, still looks amazing to this day). That morning, I was on my way out, and she was on her way in. I was still jittery after indulging in my second cup of coffee; she was flustered, and struggled to balance her awkward combination of urgency and clumsiness that I too saw in myself. Then it happened. We bumped into one another. She stepped right, and so did I. We both giggled. I smiled and she blushed. Then I went left, and she went left! I made the first move, and nervously apologised. She blushed some more, brushing the hair away from her face and said, softly – ‘It’s okay.’ Not wanting to hold her up (although, secretly hoping to) I stepped left once more, but coincidentally, so did she. We both excused ourselves simultaneously, stammering over the top of one another (which was cute… then) It was as if it was our destiny to bump into each other. Fate had brought us together, in it’s own romantically clumsy way. But after twenty thousand-odd left and right footsteps later, we’re still caught in the same doorway, unable to get out of each other’s way, not unlike an animated GIF.

As time went on Joe’s Coffee House eventually closed down and became a laundry mat, then a beauty spa, followed by a Thai massage parlour, a tattoo parlour, a Starbucks, a KFC, a tax agent, an adult store, and eventually another coffee shop. It didn’t seem to matter what happened either side of the doorway, we remained permanently stuck in our clumsy collision. She grew cold, irritable and sarcastically sinister, while I exchanged my smiles and charming mannerisms for demeaning mumbling slurs (directed mostly at myself). 

As unhappy as we were, our timing remained impeccable. She still shuffled left when I shuffled left. And when I went right, she wearily stepped right as well. Gradually, our apologies subsided to a mere sigh or grunt, then inevitably ceased to exist. Each time she brushed the hair away from her face, I quivered inside with rage. The awkward little nuisances we originally fancied in one another became one gigantic pain in the arse.

Still today, our doorway predicament often draws an audience of onlookers who sigh ‘awww’ in unison. Over the years we’ve featured on multiple news programs and even signed a book deal. The publisher thinks our story could be turned into a movie one day. She calls it ‘Hollywood’s first ‘Doorway Romance’. Together we’ve witnessed all types of things in the doorway. A couple of years ago when the cafe was still a KFC there was a robbery. They managed to escape through the open doorway with the safe and four hostages by walking right between us, without breaking our bind. KFC were so livid they attempted to sue us for neglecting our duty of rescue. The court hearing took place right there in the doorway, where we were forced to demonstrate our bind to the jury, as if we had a choice.

The latest coffee shop is currently undergoing renovations, the owner’s concerned that we’re going to get in his way. How ironic. ‘It’s nothing builders haven’t worked around before’ I told him. If something was to change and either she or I made an unexpected move and broke free, I don’t know what I would do with myself, to be honest. It’s been so long that I’ve grown comfortable, content even. My parents have been married 45 years and they can’t stand each other, but they persist. I guess it’s easier staying together sometimes, even when you have a choice.

When we’re alone at night we often talk about missed opportunities to travel abroad or the fact that we’ve never been intimate. As we grow old the chance that one of us may become too weak to stand is kind of exciting, thrilling even. We’ve even started placing bets on who will go first. She thinks it will be me, because of my arthritis. Hopefully, whoever goes first will still be young and healthy enough to travel, heck, even meet somebody else. As long as it’s not in a doorway that is. 

Our timing is so impeccable that we’ll probably go at the same time: dying in each other’s way. Come to think of it, that would be a fitting way to go. Romantic. A real Hollywood ending, the publisher would say. Like Romeo and Juliet, but nothing like that at all.

Little Like The Fly

I return to the table from a short bathroom break and our eyes meet. My date smiles at me as she elegantly brushes the hair away from her face, while sipping her green tea. I sit down and do the same hoping it will calm my nerves. I don’t have any hair so it doesn’t quite come off. As I’m about to take a sip of my tea I happen to notice a small dark blur floating around in my cup. I catch it in the bottoms of my eyes as it passes beneath my nose and hurries into my mouth.

I try to convince myself that I’ve only swallowed a loose tea leaf that somehow managed to slip through the tight security of the strainer. Then paranoia sets in. Could there have been a fly swimming around in my tea cup? What if I have swallowed a fly? I hate flies; I have a phobia of them, they call it – Pteronarcophobia. It all happened so fast I can’t be sure what I saw. I’m starting to sweat. My date excuses herself from the table and I’m convinced that my least favourite thing in the world is now inside me.

I imagine the fly must have landed in my English breakfast whilst I was in the bathroom earlier. Perhaps it attempted to drink its way out at first, eventually swallowing more tea than it could stomach. Is it possible that the fly was lactose intolerant? Did it drown, or was it still breathing? Meanwhile, the back of my shirt is now completely soaked.

Should I say something? Do I ask the waiter for a new cup? By asking and explaining the situation am I going to embarrass myself? Even if I didn’t swallow the fly, she’s still going to think I did because I mentioned it and made a whole big deal over nothing. She’s going to wish she swiped left rather than right. Tinder hasn’t been kind to me, I need this. I don’t have to tell her, and I won’t. Still, I’m worried about the fly that’s now nesting inside me. My date returns to the table and looks uncomfortable; did she see me swallow the fly? Perhaps she noticed that it was in my tea and didn’t say anything, or tried to, but it was already too late. She starts staring at me, swiping left with her eyes.

We talk about a range of topics, but not the fly. She’s amused that we share the same taste in films, music and food, but not so in our choice of tea; I avoid the topic of tea altogether and steer the conversation elsewhere. She seems to have forgotten what happened and entertains me with her quirky tales of adventures abroad, but all I can think about is this disgusting fly. ‘It’s possible he swam out.’ Says a voice coming from within me. ‘What? No! What did he do? Swim to the side and climb out using the ladder?’ I mutter to myself, earning an odd look from my date. ‘Flies shit wherever they land’ Says another voice. Great, now the voices are back. How common is it to suffer from both Schizophrenia and Pteronarcophobia? I’m not thinking clearly, my body’s having a reaction to the fly. I’ve gotta keep it together.

The voice continues ‘I’ve heard if you swallow a fly it’s like swallowing gum. It clings to your insides for eight years and you’re unable to digest it.’ The other voice butts in. ‘No, that’s ridiculous. Gum stays wherever it lands; it hugs the streets, hides under school desks and resides on the backs of cafeteria seats. I’ve never seen a fly stay anywhere for too long, they can’t sit still.’ I cover my mouth and whisper back ‘When it’s alive that is.’

 The date may as well be over, she waves her finger in the air to signal the waiter for the bill. ‘I strongly believe if the fly is in there, he will fly out and everything will be okay.’ Says the voice. ‘She was the only girl who swiped right! We need this!’ Adds the other voice. I wonder what the chances are that he will fly out of my stomach, up through my throat and out of my mouth? Can a fly escape from an ear? Or nose? Or? Oh no. This is bothering me a little, little like the fly.