Everybody’s fluent entry into the shop is checked now. The door is darkened with hopefuls doing their phone. They are, without exception, patient and kind.
‘Shall we check in?’
‘It’s not working.’ A lady swayed and bent over her phone, but her group were looking into the windows, faces on the glass, eyes screwed up.
‘Look at this.’
‘MARK TWAIN.’ Said in a scream.
‘Weird guy him.’
‘This isn’t working. The lady on the glass is turning her phone around and around.
‘Turn it this way. What are you doing? Turn it this way.’
‘God. Government probably changed it.’
‘Get in then.’
‘I think that lady at the counter’s going to give me a dirty look if I try and take this coffee inside, so I’ll wait out here.’
I heard her say it, as I pretended not to hear her say it.
Then she crept in. ‘Can I have this?’
I said, oh yes, drinking my own.
They all stood and whispered. The rain banging away outside. Everything dark. I couldn’t place them, family or friends, hard to tell; a kind of magical people, especially the lady with the orange coat because the others all gathered about her, and they held up books for her to see, but she only wanted Charlotte’s Web; I heard her say it.
‘These are good.’
‘So are these.’
Are you getting that Twain?
And they all laughed.
Illustration by Outcrowd