One (Sarah Crossan)

Coffee and Cigarettes

I am a peppermint tea sort of person.

Tippi drinks coffee the colour of coal.

She guzzles down around five mugs a day

—not that I get a say—

as the caffeine careens around her body

and has her buzzing like a blender

—and me, too

these days.

It started as a milky latte to help get her going

in the mornings.

Then it was one at lunch

and another later

and before she knew it,

Tippi was a slave to the stuff.

So although

I know it’s

just one

cigarette,

and

one cigarette

never killed a soul,

I also know Tippi.

Perhaps

‘How did your day go?’

Mrs James wants to know

during our

debrief in her office.

‘Do you think you could be happy

at Hornbeacon?’

‘Happy?’

Tippi asks,

her head

tilted to the side

as though

she’s never heard the word before

and is requesting a

translation.

‘Happy,’

Mrs James repeats,

waving jazz hands at us.

‘Do you like it here?

Will you be staying?’

Tippi looks at me and

I smile.

‘Perhaps,’ she says,

and then again,

‘Perhaps.’