Something on
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Writing extracts by Rosa Barbour |
Something on
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Writing extracts by Rosa Barbour |
There’s a new boy working in the café. His glasses magnify his already-huge olive eyes slightly, lending an owlish quality to his sincere face. All the tired Monday morning eyes are on him, because he's one of the very rare, lucky ones to have kept their magic after the Strawberry Moon Disaster. His wings are huge; inky black and velvety, releasing plumes of glitter from the tips every so often as he takes coffee orders. The wings, of course, are the main focus of the many stares he's attracting, but I would have noticed him anyway. I would know him a mile off. It's Andrea, an Italian boy I went to primary school with for a year or so, before the Tourmaline Reforms. He spoke little to no English when we were children, but we still managed to be friends. His mother told me that he wanted to be the most famous performer in the world. He had a baby sister, I remember, who was the apple of his eye. On the counter, he’s put some white cups on display, tipped and filled to the brim with bright-coloured powder; one a mustardy yellow, the other a dense, highly-pigmented green that reminds me of Urban Decay’s Kush eyeshadow. ‘You want to try?’ he asks me. I can see from the look in his eyes that he doesn't remember me. ‘Is Matcha, or Turmeric. For lattes.’ ‘Okay,’ I laugh, pointing to the green dust. He takes a jar from the counter-top and sprinkles a measure into a large cardboard cup. He opens the palm of its hand, summoning a silver jug which sits there for a moment or two, until fine plumes of steam float from its brim. When the milk is ready he uses his hands as normal to pour the milk on top of the Matcha, creating a pretty, unfussy leaf print on its surface. ‘You disappoint her,’ says the man behind me in the queue nastily. ‘She thought she was getting the fucking Mona Lisa.’ Andrea, ignoring this, presents me with the steaming green cup. ‘Here,’ he says. ‘You are Little Matcha Girl.’ I laugh. ‘You know this tale? 'The Little Match Girl'?’ he asks. ‘Yes. Yes, I remember. It’s very sad. ‘In Italian, ‘La Piccola Fiammiferaia’. They make a play recently, in London. Her name is Fiammetta.’ ‘Ahh. I see.’ ‘Is very beautiful story. I know it because my sister…’ He loses concentration for a second, and then I notice little cardboard holder is knocking at the bottom of my cup. I adjust my grip, and it nudges itself onto the base, allowing me to hold the cup without burning my hands. ‘Your sister liked the story?’ I probe him, gently. He looks up at me again and gives a tiny apologetic shake of his head. ‘No, no. She doesn’t like this story at all. They use it to teach her English. But my sister cried every day so had to change. My sister was very, you know… how do you call it. She was caring for things. Anyway, that was before. Sorry, is not good English. I am Andrea.’ ‘Oh! Eh, I’m Nina. And, no. No, it's good, your English is lovely.’ Andrea smiles, and then looks at me searchingly for a moment, as though my voice sparked a distant memory. The man behind me lets out an impatient sigh, so I say goodbye, and move away from the counter. At the door, I throw Andrea a parting glance, and his face brightens, suddenly, with recognition. He smiles, his wings sparkling brightly. When I get outside, I look down and see a glittering Mona Lisa face on the surface of my latte, which stays piping hot for my entire commute to work.
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