Weary Lunchtime Dance

Piece of short fiction about a fraught lunchtime meetup.

The young woman clangs through the door of the café and looks around.

‘Siobhan’s not here yet,’ she announces.

A waitress comes up to her.

‘I can sit ye down here by the counter,’ she says, pointing to a table for two.

The young woman follows her to the table. She sits ramrod straight, her head darting from side to side. Her shirt carries the logo of a big supermarket and a name tag with her name on it. The waitress brings a jug of water and two glasses.

‘There’s my name,’ says the young woman, pointing to the tag. ‘Look. Nicola.’

‘That’s nice,’ says the waitress, wiping the table.

‘Siobhan’s coming. She’s my sister. We’re celebrating my big job. I said I’d be here at 1.03. And it’s 1.04 now.’

‘Oh, I’m sure she’ll be here any minute, Nicola,’ says the waitress.

The waitress moves away to serve other customers. Nicola looks at her watch, her phone, her watch, her phone. She calls to the waitress.

‘Is she here yet? Is Siobhan here yet? It’s 1.05.’

‘Ah, I’d say she’s just running a bit late. You know how the parking is.’

Nicola picks up the phone. There is a faint burr as it rings out. She picks up the phone again. Burr. Hang up.

The waitress comes with tea for Nicola.

‘It’s 1.07 now,’ says Nicola. ‘Siobhan’s not answering on the phone.’

‘I’d say she won’t be too long more,’ said the waitress. ‘Probably just getting out of the car.’

Photo by Ben White on Unsplash

Photo Description: A brown-haired woman sits and stares straight ahead, deep in contemplation,w ith her folded hands in front of her mouth.

The door of the café tinkles open and a woman bunts her way through it, her hands full of bag and umbrella. She’s wearing jeans and a faded jumper. Bits of her hair are sticking up. She goes towards Nicola’s table. It is 1.08.

She thunks herself onto the seat opposite Nicola, lets her heavy brown bag drop into the space between the chairs. She sighs out a greeting.  

The waitress gives a menu to Siobhan, but she doesn’t look at it.

‘I’ll have a toasted special and a coffee, please.’

‘Siobhan came,’ Nicola said to the waitress. ‘She came at 1.08.’

‘I told you she would, didn’t I,’ smiles the waitress.

Nicola’s shoulders loosen.

‘We’re celebrating the big job, aren’t we, Siobhan?’

‘We are indeed,’ says Siobhan. She takes her phone out of her bag.

‘Oh, you were ringing me.’

‘You said you’d come at 1.03.’

‘I’d have been here only parking was murder.’

Siobhan sounds like a surly teenager being told off by a teacher for her lateness.

‘But you didn’t answer.’

‘I’d the phone in my bag.’

‘Why was it in your bag?’

‘I can’t be at the other end of the phone all the time,’ she says. ‘And sure, aren’t I here now.’

‘Anyway, go on and tell us about the job.’

Siobhan tries to listen to Nicola’s talk about the system for stacking the shelves, clocking on and off, the passcode system for the classroom. But her brain is clogged, with lists, with duties, with needs.

She knows no words she can say will still the whir of Nicola’s brain, that they are both doomed to continue this weary dance.

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