The lady behind the bar carefully laid her half smoked cigarette on the side of the bar, lit end sticking over the edge.
Then she made the coffee. I had asked for a café au lait but now regretted my choice of mile. The open carton sat next to the hot coffee machine, the heat pump was dirty, encrusted with old, brown milk.
We carried out cups to a table and sat down. I went to stir my grayish looking drink but stopped when I noticed the spoon was dirty.
The place was greasy and dim, broken and faded stock photos of Marilyn Monroe lined the dark green scuffed walls. Dust, fake Ivy wound round the random pillars and the music was tinny.
The open door to the toilet added to the stench of old smoke and sweat.
And then I saw it on the table. A short black curly hair, unmistakable in its origins. It lay near my cup.
I looked at it, stared at it, unable to remove my eyes from this tiny monstrosity.
I turned to my partner.
“Why the hell did your friends choose to meet here? There’s a bloody pubic hair on the table!”