Josephine

Josephine is a little besotted by the man who makes her afternoon coffee. It has become routine for her to visit him at 2.30 and order a soy latte even though she has already had three coffees upon waking. He always offers to make it a strong latte, because he thinks she "needs an extra kick", because she's "a sweetie". She never refuses. And she always leaves the cafe through its side door (to sneak another look at him) then dashes into the nearby alleyway to throw the coffee she'd just bought into a dumpster. She worries a fourth coffee will give her a caffeine overdose.

As the day nears 2.30, Josephine's glances at the clock on her computer screen grow more frequent. By 2.02, she will have fantasised about going on a date with the barista. By 2.09, she will have imagined what it would be like to wake up next to him. And by 2.14, she will have already planned out the guest list for their St Patrick's Cathedral wedding. However, by 2.20, which is when she gets up to leave the office and see him, she will have banished all these thoughts. To Josephine, daydreams like these are innocuous when fleeting, but are devastating when dwelt upon. And this is especially the case because her boyfriend's photograph is sitting on her desk, monitoring her every thought.

Today Josephine is late. She gets to the cafe at 2.36. She notices that the barista is smiling at her; he calls her over; she acquiesces. Their banter takes place as usual: soy latte, strong soy latte, kick, sweetie, yes. But then he asks if she'd like to go to dinner with him, tells her he was worried she wouldn't "show up because it's way past 2.30" and that he would've then "wasted time practising in front of the mirror". But Josephine could never say yes to him because saying yes would make her unfaithful. Even though her boyfriend now sleeps in the bed of another woman (the one he took to restaurants while she puzzled over how to finish a roast chicken by herself, the one who leaves voicemails reminding her to pick us his dirty laundry), she knows that he still loves her very much, that the other woman's just a sick friend needing help, that things haven't changed at all. He promised to always tell the truth.

The barista holds out Josephine's coffee. Her hand is extended, but she hesitates to take the cup. It is filthy, she thinks; the barista's hands, his intentions, have defiled it. Her boyfriend said it was forever, and she won't be the one to lead their relationship into ruin.

Adolfo Aranjuez