The woman who never forgets...

I walk double time to the coffee shop. Spits of rain darkening my light duds. A chilly wind whispering in my ear.?

Little secrets lost in translation.?

Remember when the tar used to bubble on a summer road??

Remember when you could set your clock on winter knocking on the door??

Remember when inner city doorways were neat and tidy and homeless folk had somewhere warm to go to sleep at night?

Remember when the world was a safer place to live in?

The Woman Who Never Forgets is standing in front of me in the coffee shop. She fidgets. Draws diagrams in the air. Converses with the demons in her head.?

And loves a strong, sweet, espresso.?

She’s eidetic. Magnetic. Alphabetic.?

She is the A to Z of everything that has ever happened to her.?

Everything she’s ever witnessed. Or heard. Everyone she’s ever come into contact with. And they all clamour to be heard and seen in the space between her ears.?

Never forgotten. Never disappearing into mental oblivion.

The Woman Who Never Forgets shuffles on worn flat-heeled shoes and stands in front of Little Italy.?

Her turn to receive her regular communion of caffeine and understanding. Liquid fog. Cappuccino style.?

The one thing that gives the demons reasons to be silent. Reasons to be thoughtful. Reasons to be cheerful.?

Little Italy smiles, nods and gives her a blessing like a priest at the altar of morning prayer.?

The Woman Who Never Forgets looks around at all the other grateful souls. Sitting at their tables.

Thinking deeply. Gesturing wildly. Looking lovingly.?

Talking at a hundred miles an hour. Or one word a minute.

A quiet table calls to her. Recognises her. It doesn’t like noise. It likes silence and inner peace.?

Something The Woman Who Never Forgets needs.?

Just for a while.?

Time to remember The Man Who Went To War And Never Came Back.?

As she walks to her space and slowly sits down, welcomed by a grateful chair, Little Italy, ten feet away, looks at the box on the wall.?

The box never forgets either. Number 56 takes a breath and slips onto the turntable.

The curtains open. One man stands on the stage in front of the mike.?

This time…this place…this voice…it could only ever be Nat King Cole.?

Unforgettable.?

Some secrets never get lost in translation.?

Some secrets always know where they are.?

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You've just read an extract from my book of urban romance...it's called Love & Coffee.

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