Sometimes I like to pretend I’m a fancy-pants writer with an office, a secretary and an income by going to cafes, ordering a latte and wedging myself in the corner by the window to write and avoid eye contact with the staff, who don’t fully appreciate my attempts to stretch a single coffee over two hours. (“No, no, I’m still drinking that…I know it’s cold. And moldy. Yes, the fly is meant to be there. I’m going to drink the fly…See?”)
So I’d been sitting conspicuously in the corner nursing the dregs of my cold latte and working on my latest work of staggering genius (aka my Solitaire score) when I noticed something: The cafe is located on a busy Melbourne street and as the morning’s foot traffic passed by nearly every female checked her reflection in the floor to ceiling window I was seated behind. (Highlight: A particularly immaculate lady glancing into what should have been her reflection but was actually my bedraggled morning-face peering back through the window and her momentary distress as she thought she had somehow gone from catwalk chic to, well, me.) She, just like a majority of ladies strolling past, used that shop window for a quick visual once over to make sure everything was fine and dandy.