Carafe

I'm writing this note of gratitude for you.

Not the you, who is reading this and isn't the person I'm talking to.

But for you, the cafe owner who let it slide today. When I transgressed.

It was 8am. Today. And I was just a customer.

I ordered. You did cafe things: collect menu, place water carafe on table, place glasses on table equivalent to number of patrons. One.

A man of 41 years, some substantial qualifications, and a certain pretentious empathy for hospitality workers, I filled my own glass with water.

I replaced the carafe on the table, and let my mind wander. This was cafe culture. I was IN IT. I could take out a laptop and write some short fiction, or network with someone, or read a classic novella.

You were watching me, and it's not important that I know why. I'll admit, I'm curious, but that's not why we're here now.

Your eyes followed my hand as I reached, not for the glass, but for the entire, communal carafe, and drank from it like Caesar himself.

I must have sensed the sheer size of the opening the carafe boasted, and the distinct difference between it and the glass you had given me. I must have felt your gaze, as you stood in silent judgement of me.

Just as one does not sip from the wine bottle, or lick the cake, one does not drink from the communal carafe. And yet I had. Revelling in my membership of this cafe culture, replete with its unwritten rules and unspoken cool, I had transgressed.

And you didn't speak a word. You met my eye. I pushed the carafe away, wiped by moistened lips, and departed. You'll not see me again. And thank you.