Coffee Shop Girl

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

I watched her from the next table, as perhaps I shouldn't have, but I was merely curious. She held her head in her hands and her long, dark hair fell around her in unruly curls. I was a people watcher, and though a lot of people would say that London is not the place for it, I disagree. The city moves quickly, of course it does, but all you have to do is to move with it. Of course, here particularly, my interest in strangers has caused me some difficulty. But there is nothing I can do to help it. I can't understand why others do not share it. Every person you walk past on the street has a life, has a story. I hate not to understand every person who walks past me, I hate that I can never learn all 7 billion life stories, I don't know why I hate it, but I do.

I kept my eyes on the girl, half hoping she'd look up so that I might determine anything about her, about what was wrong. She did, for a second or two, just as I turned to leave, having finished my coffee a while before and long outstayed my welcome. In that small glimpse I saw that her face was tear stained and her make up more than smudged, I saw a look of despair flicker in her eyes, before she let her head fall right back into her hands again with what may have been a sob. When I reached the door of the coffee shop, I turned immediately back around, remembering the cards in my pocket (though I had decided a long time ago that I ought not to use them again) and walking back towards the girl's table. I left the card in the center, hoping that she'd pick it up, doubting that anything would come of it. Then I turned and left, quickly and quietly, and in the usual bustle of coffee shops at that time of day, slipped outside, my strange activity having gone completely unnoticed.

I used to make up stories for these people, the interesting ones, the ones I passed in the street or stood next to on a crowded train or watched from the next table in a coffee shop, the ones who looked like they had a story to tell. But I always wanted to know the real story, so I wrote the cards, all those years ago, 25 of them, I carefully printed them with a Biro that was almost out of ink. It was an odd thing to do, now I look back on it, but it didn't seem so at the time. I carried them everywhere, those cards, just in case I should ever need one. I gave the 19th to the coffee shop girl, leaving only six, 19 of the 25 I had passed to the interesting people, I slipped them into their bags or their pockets, placed them gently beside them as I walked passed. The cards had a PO box address printed on them, my PO box address, and underneath that, in tiny hand printed letters:

You may do what you want with this address- I swear that all I will do is listen, if you want someone to talk to, if not, feel free to abandon this card wherever you think is best (though I would prefer you to recycle it) and insult me and this strange idea in any way that you see fit- it's your call, stranger.

Of the 19 cards given out, coffee shop girl was the first to reply. I did not know it was her of course, but the handwriting was definitely just as sloped and curling as I would have expected hers to be, and the story fit her just as well. And besides, hers was the only card I'd given out in years. I was surprised to receive that letter, in the PO box that usually remained quite empty. None of the others had replied. Not one. I waited until I got home to open the letter, I sat on the old, moth eaten sofa in my living room and I read her words. Absorbed her story. It was the first of many letters to be addressed, not to my name, but to my PO Box, in that same girlish hand. I have attempted to write it out as best I could from the original, which has suffered the damage of time, toddlers, and a perpetually angry cat. At points I have used memory and logic to fill in the gaps, and I hope I can be forgiven for doing so.

Dear stranger,

I do not know who you are, or when, or even whether, you will read this letter. But I'm not sure I care. I feel I ought to tell this story, though I am afraid I may not tell it very well. I wish I could write this the beautiful bittersweet way in which so many great memoirs are written. I wish I could write this with courage and self depreciating humour and a complete lack of self pity. But even if I could I suppose it would only be lying. I never have been very brave or funny. But I should hope someone like you wouldn't mind. So, um, here it is.