Café Soleil
At this hour it all looks very calm and peaceful. A killer yellow sun is just coming up over
the water, casting its spell on the lazy waves, that glow white as they sidle
onto shore. The sun rises and slowly
illuminates the buildings - the swish low rise apartments have softer contours
in the morning. The beach and walkways
look pristine since the mechanical street sweepers - giant tarantulas - have
been swaying back and forth for hours, plucking up all the debris and tucking
it all inside their great whirring bodies. For hours the bakery has had its
light on and cinnamon, apple and yeasty smells seep from under its as yet
closed doors.
A dairy truck lumbers up, and its driver pulls a trolley
from the rear end, and starts loading it impossibly high with milk, pushing it
on to the footpath up to the supermarket, where he rolls it inside.
Across the street, portly Darryl, beads of perspiration
already forming on his upper lip, wrestles piles of chairs onto the footpath,
setting each one down in its place and placing menus on the tables, ready to
entice the first joggers, gym junkies and personal trainers with skim soy
lattes and egg white omelettes followed by mineral water chasers.
The car park fills up with four wheel drives and sports cars
as the buff trainers wait, after lugging their equipment along the beach
effortlessly. Bright red boxing gloves,
pads, witches hats, balls, rope and chains put Darryl in mind of a medieval
torture chamber. For the relentlessly
cheerful early risers it's the highlight of their day.
Rosie, the part-time waitress he’s recently hired hasn’t
arrived yet, so he’s busy taking orders, keeping an anxious eye out for
her. He’s not used to being front of
house, and would rather be in the kitchen plating up or washing dishes,
anything but dealing with the public.
Mark was the people person – he felt comfortable wherever he went. A
chuckling baby, gregarious teenager and now in a persistent vegetative state,
they called it.
“Can I take your order?”
The trim young brunette checking her mobile phone barely
glances up as she replies.
“Soy Skim Latte.”
“Anything else?”
“No, that’s fine.”
He wondered why young people had to be so rude. Where were their manners? On their iPhone – that’s why they called it
an iPhone, it was always I I I - iPad,
iPod I this, I that…in Darryl’s day it was not done to big note yourself. You didn’t post selfies. You waited until you could get your roll of
film from your holidays processed and some of them would be grainy and out of
focus, but that was half the fun.
He moved past a few more tables to an unremarkable
middle-aged woman sitting on her own, except for a very friendly beagle
tethered to the table. He must remember
to put out more doggy water bowls.
“Can I get you anything?”
She flashed him a smile. She seemed to light up from
inside. It was very attractive.
“Yes, what do you recommend?”
“Cute dog.” Darryl
ventured a pat.
“It’s alright” she smiled. “He loves people. In fact, he’d
probably go home with you.”
“I’d have to get in a supply of dog food, then.” They both laughed.
“The Eggs Benedict are really good. Or if you’re vegan…”
“That sounds lovely.”
Rosie rushed up, sweating, slinging her bag down.
“Sorry I’m late. I’ll
just…”
“That’s alright. I’ll
take this one. Maybe you could see what those tables over there want.” To the
woman he said – “Won’t be long.”
She grinned and he found himself smiling too as he went to
the kitchen.
