Weekend Just Gone

He’s here - on his way to work – I’m guessing. Jeans and work boots. Re-enforced toecaps. Backpack over his shoulder – slight bulge. I imagine a couple of hard-boiled eggs, a banana, maybe a blueberry muffin. A bottle of spring water. And rough work gloves, dust pinched hard into the folds in the sweat-stained leather. Cell phone. Or maybe that’s in his pocket where he can feel the ring-tone. “Yes?” I say. “Americano to go.” “Double shot?” “Yeah. Live a bit, why not.” Nothing there. Not seeing me. Like Saturday never happened. Like double pointy finger shot-gun “You work in ‘HueHue Coffee’, yeah?” never happened. Like none of the weekend happened. “No worries.” I watch the black essence flow into the disposable cup, rippled like gran’s elbows. The last drops agonizing, slow - people kick off if they don’t get it all. A whoosh of blistering water. “Milk?” “Hot,” he says.


fiction by
Mark Ralph-Bowman

image by
Jon Lipinski