Coffee, Cricket, America

I am in a cafe in America. Everyone is smoking. They are surprised when I order coffee instead of beer. They are all a bit drunk. I pay for my friends coffees, $49. I can see them sat outside, around the back of the cafe. I go to join them, dancing briefly with a waitress in her 50’s, as she reminisces about 70’s drugs and Starlight Express.

I walk around the building. It is huge, like a cathedral. Americans play cricket, badly, on the grass outside. Their balls are too big.

I can’t get to my friends table, it is fenced off. Now children are sat there. I walk around the back, and hitch a ride on an old tricycle, to see if there’s a back entrance. The guy pedalling the bike explains that it’s a long way round, and will take ages. I’m angry that I’m missing my coffee. I take over the pedalling. It is hard, the pedals are missing, just slippy metal stumps, and short stubby handles to steer by.

Slowly I gain control, and steer us faster along roads, through the surf of the sea, and eventually back to the high street. Now the trike is a horse drawn carriage. Balloons are floating, tied to it. I have come out of my shell, my friends comment on how changed I am, and even the locals notice this.

I am with friends in America. We go for a coffee.



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