Sarah was about to step up to place her order when the guy in the black corduroy jacket pushed in front of here. “Single Latte to go.” He told the guy at the counter.
She was shocked, and was never one to deal exceptionally well with confrontation. But she had had enough of this lousy town, and the shitty Capetonian attitudes. “Excuse me!” She hollered, her voice more shrill than she would have liked. “But actually I was next!”
He swiveled round to look down at her. It’s not like she was short. He was just taller. “Shit lady.” He said. “I’m late for a meeting. I’m rolling on a massive hangover and three hours sleep.” He tipped his head forward, his dark Aviators slipping down his nose. His brown eyes were bloodshot and she could smell the odor of alcohol on his breath. He cracked a crooked smile. “Look, let me make it up to you. Let me get you a coffee – my treat!”
Sarah glared at him.
“What’ll it be?” He prompted.
She was fuming. “It’s fine.” She told him. “I can get my own coffee.”
“Come on!” He begged. “It’s a win-win situation!
She sighed loudly. “Gelado. No cream. Foam.”
He cocked toward the guy at the counter. “You get that?”
He nodded and hollered the order to the guys at the back who prepared the stuff.
It was awkward while they waited. The guy in the corduroy jacket looked at the ceiling, and Sarah could sense he was struggling to just stand. Sarah’s anger began to subside. Ordinarily she would have just brushed it off, but there’s only so much you can take. It was Thursday and work this week had been hell. Her manager had been driving her like a demon to close a project off one week before the deadline. It meant no lunch, extra over-time and little else but work. All because that bitch wanted to look good for delivering early. As far as Sarah could see, it wasn’t Hayley that skipped the break times or put in the extra hours.
The order arrived and the guy in the jacket handed her Gelado over. Then he gave an elaborate bow, dipping his head low. “My deepest apologies my lady.” As he came up, he lost his balance and stumbled a step. “Whoa.” She heard him say.
Despite herself she smiled. He smiled back. “Listen,” he continued. “I can’t live with the idea that I will go down in your memory as the-rude-drunk-guy-who-bought-me-a-gelado. I’d like to make it up to you.”
Sarah shook her head. She knew his type. Young. Single. Flirtatious. Always looking for the next best thing.
“I don’t think so.” She told him.
“Don’t make me beg.” He pleaded.
“Then don’t.” She countered.
“You asked for it.” He suddenly dropped to his knees. “Lady, to make up for my serious lack of manners, and to show you that I am sincere in my apology, I would like to take you out to some sort of restaurant slash diner slash whatever and treat you to some sort of meal slash snack slash whatever.”
Everyone else in Vida was now watching the exchange, half-formed smiles on their faces. Sarah felt the blood flood her cheeks and she said through gritted teeth. “Enough, you freak! Let it go!”
“Please.” He chirped.
“No.” repeated Sarah.
Suddenly he let out a howl, as if his testicles were caught in a vice and he threw himself at her feet screaming: “Pleeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaase.”
Sarah stormed out of Vida without another word.
She heard the sound of black-corduroy-guy’s footsteps as he jogged up behind her.
“Hey!” he called after her.
She spun round on him and he skidded to a halt, holding a sealed take-away in each hand.
“You prick!” She shouted. “Was that really necessary?”
He shrugged. “You tell me?”
Sarah swore and continued on her way up Kloof Street, heading to her car.
The guy caught up with her.
“Come on! I think we’re off to a great start!” he pointed out. “Here, you left your Gelado behind.”
“Shove it up your ass, creep!” She screamed at him.
He started laughing out loud.
Sarah froze, and turned back to him again, venom staining her features.
If looks could kill, corduroy-guy would have been deep-sixed then and there.
She snatched her Gelado from him and was off, sipping at the iced-drink.
“That’s better.” He continued. They passed the Lifestyle Centre. Sarah was aiming to pick up something from Woolworths for breakfast but her stalker had now deterred her. She reached her piece-of-shit Polo, hit the alarm and the car unlocked. Opening the driver side door, she tossed in her handbag, and squeezed herself in before slamming the door behind her. Corduroy-guy waited patiently at the window as she turned on the ignition and the car burbled into life.
She let out a massive sigh, her anger evaporating. She looked at him through the glass. He wasn’t bad-looking. And he was persistent. Like a puppy.
Or a serial killer, for that matter. She had a flash in her minds eye of the options: Either he’d piss against her couch, or slit her throat while she slept.
She shook her head, knowing it was a bad idea and that nothing good would come of it, but she rolled down the window anyway.
“F-TV in Buitengracht Street. You know it?” she asked abruptly.
“Sure.” He said, nodding slowly.
“Saturday night. 21:30.”
“Yes?” he enquired of her.
Sarah looked at him. He clicked. “OH! Right! Got it! Say no more!
He sipped his coffee – and spat it out. “Shit that’s hot!”
Sarah grinned at him. “Come sober.” She warned before popping it into first and sliding out of the parking bay.
He skipped back, his toes narrowly escaping the car’s right front wheel.
“See you there!” he shouted after her, his right hand extended in the timeless rocker’s ‘Hail Satan!’ gesture.
