Meeting Moira for coffee is like getting my teeth cleaned. I know it’s going to hurt, I think of reasons not to go, then go anyway. For the dentist, there’s an appointment, and it looms on my calendar. Moira doesn’t make appointments. She texts and demands my presence. She tends to need me more in bad weather, so predictably it’s pouring. The place she wants to meet has an overhang and electric heaters. It’s all very COVID friendly, she explains. We don’t have to sit inside and risk getting breathed on by some infected idiot. I’m not sure how being infected qualifies someone as being an idiot, but it’s one of Moira’s favorite words. She used to call me one frequently.
I arrive late, knowing she’ll be later still. Ever the gentleman, I order her an espresso so she won’t have to stand in line. It’ll cool a bit before she swoops in, but she’ll drink it anyway. Waste not, want not. Mine’s a decaf-latte with non-fat milk. My doctor says I consume too much caffeine and too many calories. Even someone my age can change his ways. I’m not going to tell you what that age is, but let’s just say I grew up watching Adam West prance around in his cape and visor.
The heater above my head is trained on my bald spot. My fingers are freezing, so I hold my cup and blow away the steam. Moira hustles across the street. She’s got on a new red coat, wool from the look of it, and a dashing black beret…
