Coffee

Strange flourish you have when you pour the milk, like an artist flicking paint on a willing participant. Huge heavy eyelids reveal and hide tiny sultanas intermittently. I can't tell if this is part of the courting, but I gather from the free coffee that you think I am cute. 

I'm assuming you never got the poem I wrote on the napkin either, as you never rang. Perhaps you knew what I'd done in the rear toilet only an hour before, or perhaps you merely thought I was cute; just cute. 

I see you riding your bike from time to time, along the streets by my house. One day i'll buy you a potato cake and a Diet Coke, and we can sit on the swings in the park down the road. If you want I will steal some of my Mum's vodka, and we can make a mixer. I'll tell you stories of my sporting achievements and prowess on a skateboard. You can read me notes jotted down in your workbook when the cafe has a lull, and tell me of lovers past. 

You'll never find out what I really want, as you never rang.