Memoir - Week 11
When
the phone rang back and Erin’s voice sounded in my ear, I was so relieved and
excited.
“Hi, I
got your message”.
We
chatted. I asked if she’d like to meet for coffee. Erin was happy to meet me
where I’d suggested, at Essen – an intimate little café in the city – Tuesday
evening. I hung up my chunky landline. I could still hear Erin’s sweet, eager
voice ringing in my ear.
Sketchy
Al as I called him (he just looked sketchy to me), Essen’s owner, wasn’t there
that night. So we sat down and waited for one of the usual university students
he hired to eventually fleet on over and take our order. Normally I would
engage in a bit of banter with Sketchy Al upon entry, before he’d ask if I
wanted my regular coffee.
Erin
and I did not get on like a house on fire. No. We got on like a whole row of
houses up in flames. The fire burnt for a good two or so hours, relaxed
conversation its abundant fuel. I told Erin some boring story about how Russian
Caravan tea had traditionally been taken with the addition of strawberry jam
mixed in for sweetness. I shouldn’t have bothered but the words had irrevocably
sprung forward, and it would have appeared even lamer of me to have stopped myself
mid-way. I was drinking Russian Caravan tea at the time and, with the jam, so
at least I had the aid of distracting props. Some nights later Erin told me
that she had actually found the little story quite endearing. She was putting
me at ease so early in our relationship. Either that or I had a remarkable
talent for utilizing props.
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