It’s very easy to be in a café ordering a coffee just because you once met your dad there and that was when you had a dad. Coffee. Sophisticated. Nothing like the weak-tea-hot-chocolate remnants that filled your cup back when you had a dad.
You like to buy hot chocolates in paper cups and drink them on the bus because you think it makes you look older. In reality, it probably makes you look younger – sipping at your cup in a dress too big for you and ankles circling in worn shoes.
You’re ordering a coffee you won’t drink – you end up with another hot chocolate because you can’t bring yourself to be alone in a café ordering a coffee. It reminds you of how your grandmother used to sit you on her knee and feed you spoons of the bitter foam. It makes you want to cry.
You’re a lot older than you were the last time he saw you, before he got on that plane. You’ve lost the baby fat and you’ve somehow made your friends jealous of your cheekbones without ever knowing they existed. You lopped your hair off and grew a head taller than your best friend. Oh well – it’s been long enough that your father won’t remember how you ever looked until you look him straight in the eye. Maybe then he’ll realise that the little girl who barely skimmed his shoulder is as tall as he is now, still drinking hot chocolates that he'll think are coffees.