I didn’t think consciously about attracting women. After all, I was married. It must have been a permanent fixture in my subconscious. What I really mean is, I couldn’t help myself.
Nevertheless, I have to admit that as I gave myself one last admiring look in the mirror each morning, just to make sure I was as handsome as ever, I’d wonder which one would be first in the door, craving my espresso.
The only one whose name I knew was Melita, the tall fake blonde with the big tits. She was sexy and looked very fuckable even if she didn’t have a brain. Every day she dressed in something different, but whatever she chose her cleavage was always on display. Her tan seemed to endure all year round, but then again it was Noosa. I often fantasised about what she’d look like in an Italian bikini — the brief ones which looked as if they’d been made from left-over fabric scraps. Melita was so ditsy she couldn’t remember how many sugars she needed in her big takeaway latte, or if she wanted sugar.
Number two was the tiny dark-haired woman. I knew I could always get a reaction from her if I looked deep into her eyes as she paid me for four short blacks. She’d linger for hours. I’d never seen anyone take so long over a short black. She was older than the others but still looked pretty hot, even though she’d have me believe she was a grandmother. She blurted that out one day and then immediately realised it was a passion killer. It showed in her lusty eyes and I knew she wanted to kick herself. She favoured miniskirts as she knew full well that her legs were still fantastic and besides she was almost flat-chested. Regrettably, her appeal began to diminish the day she became intense, stared into my eyes and told me she wanted a replacement for her old drunken husband. Her new silver S Class Mercedes became far more enticing.
The hesitant blonde with the bob never turned up before mid-morning. She was shy and usually sat by herself on a high stool next to the window and crossed her long legs seductively. With a dreamy look on her face she admired me from a distance, if a little hesitantly from underneath her heavily made-up long-lashed eyes while she took an hour to drink her half-strength, soy decaf latte.
Always the last to appear, usually near the end of the day, was the scientist. She lived in Melbourne and only came for my espresso during her holidays, that seemed to be several times a year. Maybe they were long weekends. The most unattractive of them all, she was short and tubby with no redeeming features. Even the most expensive clothes couldn’t make an impression on her ugliness. She doted on me and I loved her attention. To begin with, she knew nothing at all about coffee and would sit happily gazing at me as I slipped into my usual uncontrollable verbal diarrhoea on the subject. Many hours later she decided the cappuccino was for her. She hung off my words and I could sell her anything, like the plunger I told her she needed for home. Although she might have had the least to offer when it came to looks, she certainly knew how to ogle. The only time it became an issue was when she laughed — she brayed like a donkey and not just quietly either. The entire cafe full of customers would turn and stare at her as she opened her mouth with its crooked yellow teeth and let rip.
I invited her to one of my coffee courses to make up the numbers because I knew she’d be brilliantly attentive. And she was. However, after that she wouldn’t go away. Smitten, she lingered silently, except for the occasional laugh, day after day, looking as if she wanted to say something, but never speaking until at last she plucked up the courage and found her voice.
‘Would you come round to my house to fix my broken coffee plunger?’
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