On a Sunday in June

We hope Gary’s working. We open the door. Optimistic as the bell above rings to announce our arrival. We’re hit with a waft of espresso. The thunder of grinding coffee beans. The high-pitched hiss of steamed milk. Our wish is granted. He floats behind the counter in shades of grey and blue, mindlessly fiddling with the straps of his apron. Gals! He squeals as he spots us at the door. We squeal back. Oh my god, Gary! Like we haven’t seen each other for months. Like we are travellers back from an ancient voyage. For a moment, we are famous. Celebrities to the little square tables of Sunday-afternoon cafe-goers. They turn to watch us as we swan up to the counter. How’s it going my angels? We waffle about our morning, about the charity shop goodies we’ve crammed into our tote bags, about the night we had before, about the hangovers we’re nursing. The cafe-goers listen, ears perked, eyes darting to us and away. He tells us about the morning rush, gossips about the customers surrounding us like they aren’t there. Tells the barista beside him to make us two flat whites. Rolls his eyes once her back’s turned. We giggle, an inside joke between us. Emma, remember it’s oat milk for my girls – obviously! He whispers something to us that no one else can hear. We erupt in fireworks of laughter. The tables shuffle curiously. Emma heats the milk, spinning it into silk. Pours us perfect hearts. Gary pushes the lids onto the cups. Slides them towards us. It’s on me, he says. Chairs scrape around us. Tables murmur. You’re the best, Gary, we tell him. Wait, he exclaims. We do as he says, watching as he selects a perfect slice of red velvet cake. Folds it like a gift into a brown takeaway box. Make the most of this weather. We promise we will, dutifully. The bell rings once more as we open the door. Thanks, Gary! We cry one last time. As we step out onto a street where no one knows us – where no one understands the magic of what has unfolded – we are anyone again. Two women clasping paper coffee cups on a Sunday in June.

Beth Morrow is a writer from Edinburgh, Scotland, now living on the coast of Loch Fyne. She has received awards for her writing, including the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards during her studies in the USA, and was shortlisted for the UK Emerging Writer Award in 2022. Her work is often inspired by the idea of place, and the complex relationships we have with ourselves and those we love. She is currently working on her debut short story collection, due to be published in 2024 by Erro Press.

Twitter and Instagram: @storiesfrombeth