Coffee & Karma

Three

My Doc Martens clattered against the bricks as I hurried down Parks Street, the red light flashing at me to stop walking. The wind was as fierce as it was humid, blowing my hair across my face to impair my vision. There were a few others braving the weather like myself, wearing layers as was required on a day like today. Some took shelter from the gusts in the dozens of shops lining either side of the road, others in cafes and restaurants where I would soon join them.

The light went green and I was off, making it to Pete Park as the time ticked over to ten.

Maria sat on the park bench, her wrinkle-lined face lighting when I came into view. She wore a mismatch of clothing; black pants with blue patches and a rainbow of tops which added to the cute old lady look she had going for her. Admittedly, she was a cute old lady who I'd met a few months back, but she was also the toughest woman I knew. A number of years ago she came to the realization that she wasn't cut out for a job, or the typical life everyone ought to lead. She sold her house and, with full knowledge of the risks it could pose to her, her relationships and her life, she took to the streets.

When I met her I had recently come back from my home town, distraught over a run in with someone I'd tried so hard to forget. I was crying on the park bench which we had made our meeting place, where she sat next to me and asked what was wrong. She consoled me, offered her advice, and then we went out to lunch where I, in turn, learnt about her.

It became a weekly event. We would meet, I would take her to lunch and we would talk like the good friends we had become.

"Good morning," she stood, reaching for my hands to squeeze as per her usual greeting. "How is my lovely girl?"

"Excited for our brunch date. Shall we?" I offered her my elbow in a dramatic style and she chuckled, taking it without a second thought.

Our usual café was just across the road, a coffee shop that was much more than just another coffee shop. It was a combination of antique wood and white, with flowers at the centre of every table. We took our seats in the back corner and sat, a waitress I recognized from my psych tutorial coming over to serve us.

"Welcome to Aroma Mocha. What can I get for you ladies?" I didn't have to look at the menu and neither did Maria, ordering the same food we ate every week.

I thanked the waitress (Anna, I thought her name was) and when she left, I saw Maria had a new set of gloves covering her frail hands.

"You're not cheating on me, are you?" I asked in a gasp, gesturing to the knitted fabric. It took her a moment to understand but when she did, her roaring laugh filled the room.

"I couldn't do that to you, dear," she said once she'd calmed. "It was my son, actually, who brought them to me."

"Thomas?" She had two, one who lived interstate and the other who refused to speak with her. Thomas was the latter.

"Mmmh," she nodded as Anna brought out our tea. I poured with a frown.

"I thought he wasn't speaking to you."

"It had been seven years. Ever since I sold my flat."

"What changed?"

Maria shrugged, taking a sip of the peppermint tea. "Something must have, although I didn't have the opportunity to ask. He found me at church on Sunday morning, said a few words and gave me the gloves as a present."

"How do you feel about that?" She often joked about how perfect I would be as a psychologist due to my tendency to question everything, but today she didn't. She was thinking hard about it, as I'm sure was normal for a woman who's son resumed communication after so long.