Januariad

Alejandra is at this moment behind the counter. Earlier she was elsewhere, later she will be elsewhere again. Her hours are irregular, ephemeral. She lives nearby, surely, or perhaps in a press under the counter.

This counter is wood panelled and chest height, but not the height of Alejandra’s chest. Her head and shoulders make puppet-like appearances above the barricade to take orders. She meets the coffee machine face-to-face, raising the portafilter aloft to bang its grinds out into the tray. The presentational, pyramid-stacked bags of expired Italian flour and Irish porridge oats that line the upper shelves are beyond her reach, and beyond her plus the chair’s reach. The lower shelves are all, by various means, achievable.

She wears: a light cardigan and blue jeans, colourful banded socks, generic canvas runners. These details are registered later, after first seeing only her enormous red-framed glasses. Two rounded rectangles conspire to make her small-boned features even smaller. She moves energetically but works unhurriedly. She knows offhand the price of nothing. Her English is not terrible.