HCE received a lot of high-quality submissions for The Green Issue – sadly, too many to fit inside the magazine! So we offered some writers and artists who’d sent in work the chance to be published here on the website. Keep an eye on our social media for more great work like this, in the run-up to the release of The Green Issue…
Rob Goalby
Matcha Maker
Splattered with steamed milk and reeking of coffee is just my natural state. The same drinks, hour after hour, the same grinding noise, beans turning to powder, the same gurgle, espresso in a cup.
And now flowers. What kind of boy spells their name J-A-C, anyway?
My one break from the monotony – the green tea latte lady – the only suit clad customer that doesn’t order espresso or some hipster skinny soy mocha tosh. By the time she decides – on the same drink every time – my queue has backed up out the door.
Maybe one of the suits behind her is ‘Jac’. He sounds like a flat white with almond milk, that’s been responsibly sourced, kinda guy.
I hate that woman, every day with her perfect hair and power suit. I’ll make her wear that luminous foam one day. There she goes, not even a thank you, and now she’s holding up the condiments table.
Who puts sugar in green tea, anyway?
Back to the grind and gurgle. And froth.
Every. Goddamn. Day.
Just not today. My green tea latte lady is a no show. My boss, however, has me make one anyway, and five of the current trends, pumpkin spice whatevers with cream and toffee bits or cinnamon.
It must be autumn.
I take them across the road to the fancy-shmancy offices. They won’t take them at reception; I have to find the room. I think the drinks are still hot by the time I find it.
Called it. There she is, at the top of the table. Green tea latte lady in her power suit and strapped down tits. Still, may as well play nice. I go to put her sugar in.
‘What the hell are you doing, Meghan?’ She points at her drink. I’m taken by surprise, though I don’t know if it’s the sudden volume of her voice or the use of my name. ‘Who puts sugar in green tea?’
The screaming stops; laughter begins. But I can’t hear it running down the stairs.
Back to the grind and gurgle. And brownies.
The next day returns to normality. There she is once more – green tea latte lady – holding up my queue. I want to spit in her foam. Green on green, who would know?
She’s not worth it. I need this job. She hesitates and I frown. I want to shout hurry up. Belittle her in front of my cohorts, I think I have some here.
She smiles at me and I scowl back. She just keeps smiling and somehow it penetrates me. I pop like a balloon and my own smile shines back. I blame all these flowers. Smiling feels good, until I remember how much I hate her face. It must take hours for make-up to look like that. Like it isn’t even there. Doesn’t fool me. Wouldn’t fool a latte either.
She turns away and I’m annoyed to find my smile has stayed. My next customer orders but he could order a cup of white noise for all I’m listening.
‘No sugar today?’ I call as latte lady skips the condiments table. She turns and mouths the word ‘sorry’. Or lorry, I guess.
Today is Friday, so I’ve got the weekend vibes. No green tea lattes today and it’s the end of my shift. Strange. Maybe it’s a bad hair day.
I have to move Jac’s latest gift to access my locker. The bouquets are getting bigger, this one has a balloon. A sad emoji face. He must be a perv. A rich perv, but a stalker or something at least.
I must go to the other side of town tonight, so I go to the tube station instead of the bus stop. And there she is – green tea late lady – drinking from a branded paper cup.
She looks my way. Her eyes narrow at first then widen as her face flushes pink. She remembers her hand; the cup she’s holding.
I can tell by the smidge of foam on her top lip that it’s not green. How dare she? Cheat on me? With some cheap Arabica trash, no less.
I want to confront her, but the sugar incident invades my brain, rekindling my shame.
I want to slap her. I shouldn’t care, I still get paid the same if she drinks my green tea or not. I want to know. I need to know. What has she ordered and how long did it take her?
The platform is crowded but I see her looking at me. The occasional glancing eye.
Oh God. Does she think I’m following her? Have I just become her Jac?
Our train arrives and the throng of commuters somehow forces us into the same carriage. It’s standing room only and we both reach for the same handle.
‘You take it. Don’t want to spill your coffee on anyone.’ I nod at her cup; the elephant in the room. The colour drains in her cheeks and she grabs the handle as we fire out of the station.
She’s turned enough that I can see her cup. I can read barista and it tells me everything I need to know. In a flash, the mystery unravels. The innocent scribble of a coffee shop server has blown this woman’s cover.
‘I get it now.’ I see the fear frozen in her eyes. ‘Do you even like green tea?’
‘I….’ She is lost for words.
‘Why shout at me?’ I ask her. She hesitates, biting her lip. I wonder how invisible her lipstick will be on her teeth.
‘Just a bravado thing. Helps the men forget I’m a woman.’ All the hallmarks of shame and regret linger in her body language. ‘I tried to say sorry.’
It quickly fades. She isn’t on the same page as me. She doesn’t realise what I know, how telling her cup of betrayal is.
‘What makes you think I don’t like green tea?’ she asks as we rattle through the tunnel.
‘You’re drinking a decaf soy latte, extra shot, double cream.’ At least that’s what her paper cup was saying. ‘It’s pretty niche.’
She looks at me like I’ve just revealed her darkest secret. Shock permeates her naturalistic mask.
‘You fancy me.’ My own words surprise and excite me. It’s too much for her. I’ve embarrassed her, and like me she wants to run for the exit. We are still rattling between stations and the wind rushing through this old train moves her hair just so.
‘Is that written on my cup too?’ she asks, deflecting my accusation.
‘Actually, it is.’ I smile at her. It’s not meant to be righteous or cocky, though I’m not sure how she sees it.
I can see her resisting the urge to look. I haven’t glanced back at it since the first time. I’m maintaining my eye contact with her subtle mascara. The things she could teach me.
‘We’ve never been formally introduced.’ I curtsy, hoping there is still time before the train starts to brake.
‘You’re Meghan. You wear a name badge.’ She interrupts me before I even start.
I have to change my balance and I clasp my hand tightly over hers on the handle, my heart’s acceleration inversely proportional to the trains.
‘And you’re Jac. It’s written on your cup.’
Rob Goalby is a writer from the Midlands. A travel blogger and short story writer dealing with the human experience, how we interact with each other and the world around us. You can find him on Twitter: @RobGoalbyWrites.