Milk To 1-40, Caffeine to 1-80
Milk To 1-40, Caffeine to 1-80 is a great name for a coffee shop. A few tables, for those of us who vant to be alone. The entire back wall, filled with the bee-like shadows of baristas, punctuated by the hiss of steam and the slow, sensuous searing of milk. None of the darkened, underground gloom of the big coffee chains. It lies in an area of the city, where it used to be ill-advised to walk late at night. A liberal application of both coffee and hipster made it into a trendy area. It lies next door to an antique shop, filled with both the possessions and dreams of other people called Buy Curios. The other side is filled with a Christian bookshop called Crosswords. The weather is unseasonably warm and bright for a December day; somewhere between Black Friday, Cyber Monday and What The Fuck Do You Want For Christmas Tuesday.
A 4X4 pulls up. Something muscularly Freudian and designed to be driven across warzones. A man locks the door. Dressed in a fashion belonging to those with either an extreme sense of flamboyance; or no concern for other people’s opinions. Zero fucks are given by this muscular, elegant man in a red velvet suit and black boots. If this was a few years ago, no-one would dare touch the car for fear of imminent violence.
Heart breezes in and causes several coffees to be spilt. He orders something, that generally would cause headaches in most people. He sits down and searches for WiFi. He looks up and sees the sign:
‘WiFi Password: There is no WiFi Password. Have A Conversation. Order Another Cup’.
He searches for WiFi on the phone, picks up the one of the Christian book shop across the road. Everyone knows that the password is 5loaves2fishes.
Heading towards this street is a sinuous woman on a bike. Flowers in her hair, a Summer dress flowing in the February chill. Pink sunglasses casting a magenta shade. She leaves a cloud of perfume behind her. Not enough to pollute the atmosphere, or cause people to gag. However, it does cause admiring glances from several men. And at least four women. Soul chains her bike to a lamppost outside Milk To 1-40. She might be a complete flowerchild, but she’s not stupid. She looks into the plate glass windows and waves at Heart. It might be Christmas Shopping Time; but the café is relatively empty. The sense of loneliness and Winter light gives it the sense of an undiscovered Hopper painting. She waves at Heart, Heart waves back. A frisson of excitement settles across the Winter air.
Heart, has already ordered. Like most men with an excess of testosterone, he camouflages this macho dickheadery as an act of pure Medieval chivalry. He has ordered a coffee which has come from Ethiopia. It is served alongside a glass of water - such is the insidiousness of the caffeine. Alongside it is a wedge of Hummingbird Cake. Despite its name, this bird is earthbound by banana, pecan, cream cheese and coconut. For Soul, he has selected a Camomile Tea and a slice of Victoria Sponge.
‘I’ve ordered for you!’ he says, with an expansive gesture as she walks towards the table.
She peers over the glasses, then peers closely at the cake. ‘Is that a Victoria Sponge?’
‘It should be, I paid for it’.
‘Technically…’ she underlines this point, as she sits down and removes her glasses; ‘It’s not a Victoria Sponge. A true Victoria Sponge has jam only; not jam and cream.’
‘It’s a fucking cake!’ Heart says, slipping into the darker elements of his psyche. He removes his sunglasses and is momentarily calmed by the cerulean depths of Soul’s eyes. Time passes, empires rise and fall. Dying stars continue their slow breaths. These are immortal beings after all, and anything could happen.
‘However,’ she says, underlining the words with the merest flourish of a finger; ‘I fancied some cake. And I accept your kind offer.’ She moves the fork sideways and with a combination of light and firm pressure, takes a mouthful of cake. She washes it down with a sip of tea. A long and awkward silence follows, the kind that there shouldn’t be on a first date. Heart breaks it, as he says through a mouthful of cake: ‘How’s Anima?’
‘She’s fine. What is all this about, anyway? This doesn’t feel like a date. And technically, I’m spoken for.’
‘I’m offering you a business proposition’, he says through another mouthful of cake, followed this time by a slug of coffee. ‘I’m getting tired of being an Agent Of Spirit. And The World is spinning down to the next catastrophe. Dunno what it is yet. Pandemic, Asteroid Strike-‘
‘I’ve seen that one. Nasty, nasty stuff. Still, tropical flowers everywhere would nice.’ Soul, is at heart (every pun intended) a dreamer. She sees the best of every situation and can see the merest chink of light in the darkest of clouds.
‘What I am proposing’ He says; absent-mindedly tracing a line in the sugar he has spilt on the table ‘Is an alliance. Not a romantic one, but me’, he bangs the table, disturbing the mid-afternoon coffee break for several people. ‘And me’ he knocks again, causing a further frisson of fracas and the abandonment of several novels that were well reviewed by The Guardian, but will remain on the shelves of the local charity shop for at least a year; before returning to the trees that gave birth to them ‘working together’.
And for a moment, eternity hangs by a single, Damoclean thread. I mean, this thing happens more often than you think. Soul is actively considering the offer. A union of Heart And Soul? Humanity could be saved from itself. Peace, justice and equality. With lots of flowers. Pretty flowers, waving in a Summer breeze….
And then Anima walks in.
Anima is a, gender-fluid creature. As the name suggests, she is the spiritual embodiment of the space between the Male and Female psyche. She’s moving through the door, exchanging furious glances at some customers and apologising profusely to others. She’s in a relationship with Soul. At the moment, anyway. She has previously been in a relationship with Heart. And several other spirits. To say ‘it’s complicated’, would be an understatement. She sits down at the table, dressed in a hoodie which has seen better days and leggings which have seen better years. You couldn’t cut the silence if you tried.
‘Afternoon Anima. Who are you today’ says Heart, as he takes a slug of coffee ‘and should we be scared?’ He smiles insincerely.
‘Fuck you and the horse you rode on, you macho prick. Hi Darling.’ She kisses Soul in such a way that several customers conclude that this is the most interesting date they’ve seen. Heart points a finger in the air at the nearest barista and points at the table.
‘What’s cooking?’ says Anima, as she traces the patterns of distant galaxies in the spilt sugar. She’s almost childlike now, smiling and stealing glances at Soul. She reads the barista’s mind and she places her coffee and cake on the table. She’s studying art history. She’s talented, definitely. At the same time, she has a haughty disdain for anyone else. Her dreams of being a famous artist will crumble, due to this fatal flaw. She’ll end up teaching art history to snotty teenagers. Her own snark will chase any lover away.
‘Heart here’ she points at him, he smiles back. ‘Is offering an alliance. Me and him working together. Creating a utopia.’
‘And I wasn’t invited?’ questions Anima. She looks back hurt, with a single tear running down her cheek. Soul traces the path with a finger.
‘My darling…’ she says, speaking in a child-like way to a child-like spirit ‘I didn’t even know…’ This apology is accepted.
‘So’ says Anima, still idly tracing pretty patterns on the table; ‘You two are going to work together. Which ‘generally’ leads to peace.’ She does the air quotes thing, so let it not be said that elemental spirits aren’t fucking irritating too. ‘The Pax Romana, The Long Peace, that sort of thing?’
‘You got it one sister’, Heart says with a double thumbs up. I refer you, gentle reader to the previous point about macho dickheadery.
‘The Pax Romana was plagued with civil wars. The Long Peace was underpinned by the threat of nuclear Armageddon, only prevented by Stanislav Petrov. Thanks Stan!’ She raises her coffee cup and drinks it in one sip.
‘She’s got a point, you know’. Soul smiles at Heart. He can feel a deal - which would grant him a power that would match that of The Spirit – slipping away, dripping like water.
‘Ok’ he says, looking at the half-drunk coffee and half eaten cake. ‘What is the alternative?’
‘When you say an alternative, do you mean something that gets you what you want?’ Soul smiles sweetly. The scent of flowers is fading away and the cool water of pure rationality is flowing through her veins.
‘At the moment, me and Soul are in a relationship. And that is the way it is going to be for quite some time. Isn’t it, my love?’ They kiss in public again, causing the turning of several different heads and the deletion of at least four dating apps. ‘Humanity is at a crisis point. It is more than capable of exterminating itself. It’s a junkie, addicted to the possibility of a multiple-choice apocalypse.’
‘Nice image’ nods Soul.
‘Humanity’ says Heart ‘is a junkie, I agree. It’s addicted to cheap sentimentality. It’ll cry at a dolphin getting caught in a plastic bag; whilst voting for governments that let children starve.’
‘I agree’ begins Anima. ‘But where does this change come from? Women. Young people. Activists. People who are tired of being racially abused or murdered by police officers. People who just want agency over their own sexuality, their own gender preference.’
A long pause settles over the afternoon. Heart remains silent. He’s itching to say something in the general ballpark of sarcastic, flip, passive aggressive. But he can’t. He knows in his heart of hearts, there is no comeback. This is the truth. In this sense, immortal beings are truer to their own souls than mere mortals. And he also knows that humanity will find the answers. Maybe slower than he would like. But there will be a glad dawn, some uncertain time away.
‘Come on’ said Anima. We’re leaving. ‘Work to do. Minds to change, ideas to be formed and souls to be tweaked. Least of all: yours.’ They leave, arm in arm. Heart leaves soon after.
And so, it came to pass on a late Winter afternoon, humanity was saved. Not by machismo, or force but by the quietest part of its personality. This small point in history, made in a coffee shop was never noticed. It was a grain of sand on an infinite beach. A side street in civilisation. That rarest of things; a useful argument.
