Lucy Kulwiec gained a BA in English Literature from the University of East Anglia in 2015. She has worked as a journalist (NCTJ), actress, legal researcher, gallery assistant and healthcare worker. She is working on a variety of short stories, poetry and memoir.

_____

Vanilla

One salted caramel ice coffee and a red wine. The red wine is hers, you can tell. She sits arms crossed in the corner by the window as he goes to sit back down. He sits legs open, leaning back on the chair’s hind legs. His eyes twirl her face as she dodges the gaze by counting buses outside. 

You prefer it busy. When you are distracted by cleaning tables and the fat of meatballs greasing your apron. You like the breakfast hours. The builders who give you a wink and say you’re too pretty to be behind the counter. They call you Susie, despite knowing your name is Sarah. 

You start to put out the knives and forks for dinner. Fold the serviettes in half. There’s a wind outside, but she doesn’t seem cold. You go back into the kitchen to your bag to put a scarf round your neck and see a text from your mum asking you to pick up milk on the way home. It’s your thirtieth birthday next week and she still hasn’t mentioned anything. 

You go over. We’re out of caramel syrup you say. He looks at her. Looks at you. He goes for vanilla instead. She smiles. As you walk away you hear her say,

“How is the ___ ? Any luck?”

Her voice is low, you can’t hear it all. He is louder. He replies,

“Taking it slow. I’ve learnt not to project. I’ve ___ people along the ___ “

He keeps saying words you can’t hear. He licks his lips as she recoils into the corner’s shadow, scratching the flesh of her thumb and scanning the menu so as not to look at his face. You call her Jane. You call him Jim. He leans back on his chair too far. Jim waits for Jane to look at him like he is looking at her. To hold something in the silence together. 

Mum texts again. She wants to know if you can call up the job centre and let them know she won’t make it tomorrow. You let her know you can. You always can and always will. It would be easier if she went. You’ve offered to go with her, but she can’t go outside. She says it feels like it burns her skin. She’s afraid after the accident to go outside. That people will stare at her leg. You’ve told her before it’s all in her head. You’ve bought her books about how to be more confident, how to find her inner wolf woman, but she still insists on only reading Alice Munro. 

You don’t put much vanilla in his drink. You load it with ice. You give her Rioja – better than the house red. 

You can go back to university next year, do your year abroad in Madrid finally. Collect postcards of Goya and Miró in Barcelona. 

You go over and give them their drinks. Her smile is straight and her eyes don’t crease. She’s asking you ‘please, save me’ with frozen blue irises. You let him take his off the tray and you place hers carefully in front. She’s wearing a black wool jumper and gold necklaces, with her light hair tied back. She’s striking and smart. You ask her if she needs anything else.

“Not right now. But thanks!”

“Excellent,” Jim replies. 

He cups the tall glass in his hands and then stirs the spoon, scooping the froth off the top and rubbing his belly whole. 

You go back behind the counter and put the wine bottle back in the rack above the microwave. 

“Nice wine,” Jane says.

“Saucy. How’s the ___?” 

“Good. Just ____ down the past few months. ____my head straight. How was ____?”

“Great. Everything in my stride right now.”

“_______ you need.”

You wipe down the counter and watch the way she watches the road. She holds her neck with a hand gilded in gold rings. She’s not local, she doesn’t take the DLR usually but she came anyway. Maybe she was in the area, decided to drop by. Jim stares at her, leaning his arm on the next chair. He’s talking softly and you can’t hear. She’s listening to something she’s already heard. A roundabout of words.

“I’ve realised I’ve pushed away those closest to me, or put too much on those closest to me,” Jim says. 

“_________ . How is your brother?”

“_______ . He’s been really helpful actually.”

“I can’t wait for winter.”

“I remember you last year in your big coat.”

“______ the cold. _______”

“Great.” 

Jane has noticed a loud sound outside. You go out to check the generator. You want her to be comfortable. When you come back in they are silent and Jim has his hands clasped on the table. You don’t want her to leave. 

You go over and ask if they would like another drink.

“Go on then,” Jim says. She smiles softly in return and nods for another. Jim gets a red this time. He can have the house. Jane can still have the Rioja. 

He wants to stay. She wants to leave. You want to leave too, but not back home like her. You want her to stay here with you. You want to ask her things, questions about how she seems so luminous while wearing black.

Mum texts again. Asking if there will be leftovers today, and if you’ve seen the score at the Winter Olympics for the ice skating singles. You remind her the TV isn’t allowed in the restaurant anymore. You email your boss again, asking if you could curate a Spanish tapas night – you’ve seen other places do it. They are always busy. You want to hold the room in your palm and mould it into your own. 

Jim and Jane are silent for a while.  

“I thought as much,” he says.

“I wasn’t looking but _______ . He’s nice, it feels very chilled.” 

“What’s his name?”

“_____”

She leaves first. Her big wool coat engulfs her like a first-class airline seat. She turns round to smile and say thanks to you. You smile back and wave. He hugs her goodbye like an acquaintance. He comes up to the bar and pays. 

He leaves. He slams the door. 

You wait for the dinner rush to arrive.