The St Kilda Galleon Café is busy on Saturday mornings. Something to do with their eclectic mix of student dining and hippy soul searching I think. We got the last two seats wedged between a gaggle of giggling teenagers and a dreadlocked couple dreaming of Jamaica and hallucinogenic drugs as they gazed into their skinny lattes.
You were wearing those oversized sunglasses that Victoria Beckham has cursed upon the world. They made your head look like a fly that had been magnified a trillion times, but in a nice way. When you took them off to peruse the menu, your eyes caught mine and I blinked first. An uncomfortable lump had developed in my throat and I felt the first trickle of perspiration on my brow. I fumbled over the menu, searching for something that would make me seem sophisticated and worldly wise. I settled for avocado and mushroom on Pied toast. I emphasised the Pied bit as though I was exclaiming to the café, “No ordinary toast for me, I have wandered the back streets of Marrakech and sipped coffee on the footpaths of Constantinople. And what’s more, my body is a temple, unsullied by the indignity of white bread and preservatives”.
But you paid no attention to my pathetic attempts at being cool. You could do it effortlessly. You asked for the low carb, vegan breakfast with rye bread and Guatemalan coffee as though it were cornflakes and you’d been having it every morning since you were three. The Café was noisy. Full of chat about backpacking around Europe, college exams and whether Brad Pitt would get back with Jennifer Aniston. We were aloof to such trivial matters. Sometimes words just aren’t enough.
Like most Australian cafes, the Galleon provides free newspapers for its patrons, but at the same time, they like to make a political statement. Rupert Murdoch dominates the newspaper industry in Australia in the manner of Charles Foster Kane, but without the chubby good looks. It’s difficult to pick up a newspaper here without reading a justification of the War on Terror or how immigrants are plague ridden welfare sponges. The Galleon is cheerfully left wing and stocks only non Murdoch papers. Which means you have to read “The Age” or stare at the hippy posters on the wall. The weekend edition was sitting between us and you instinctively moved for the Arts section as I reached for the Sports. I immediately regretted this, as I was keen that you didn’t see me as a brainless jock. But as you had already grabbed the Arts, I was left with little opportunity to paint myself as a sensitive intellectual. The Gardening and Motoring sections left little room to impress. I sensed that you were more concerned with saving the planet than a small garden and if you were forced to drive, it would be a Citroen 2CV. The car for people who hate cars.
When the drinks arrived, we both stretched for the milk and our fingers touched in one of those cinematic moments beloved of Hugh Grant. I giggled like a 12 year old girl at a Westlife concert and you smiled at my innocence. We read the paper and occasionally glanced up to smile at each other. But you seemed in another world. You would read something in the paper and then tilt your head upwards to contemplate. This showed the majestic arch of your neck and the tumbling mane of your flowing locks. I tried the same but only succeeded in looking like Mussolini in one of his more pompous moments.
My food arrived first and I became conscious of you watching me as I ate. Suddenly every chewing action became a thunderous movement of jaw muscles. My face stretching in obscene directions and my mouth dribbling and finding it impossible to keep itself closed. But thankfully you seemed uninterested at this point. An article on lesbian drama in the Melbourne Arts Festival seemed to hold your attention and made me momentarily worried that my attentions were focussed in the wrong direction. But then you caught my eye again and in that flirtatious look I knew that you were interested in men, if not necessarily in me.
The couple beside us were talking about “Australian Idol” and began every sentence with “Oh my God”. We looked at each other and raised our eyebrows in a solidarity moment of contempt. Your food finally arrived and the waiter made a lame joke about having to go to Guatemala for the coffee. You humoured him a with a smile but your lips registered enough annoyance to suggest that he wouldn’t be getting a tip. You ate your food like a ballerina would cross a stage. I was ashamed of my oafish munching and disappeared behind the paper.
When I looked up, you were at the counter paying your bill. As you left, you turned to look at me. You didn’t smile, you didn’t nod, you didn’t speak. You just looked.
And in that look, a thousand dreams went through my head, but none of them came true.
We had shared a breakfast. Two strangers in a busy café and we hadn’t said a word. I didn’t speak because I’m shy and clumsy. You didn’t speak because you are too cool for conversation. All I was left with was regret and indigestion. We search the world looking for love and dream up poetry and prose to charm them. And yet, when we find what we are looking for, how often does fear overpower our desire?
But sometimes, words just aren’t enough.
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