My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie COFFEE IS FOR MEN. TEA IS FOR KINGS. That's what the sign outside the tea shop read as I across the street from it, reading a newspaper from two days ago. Inside were a few stragglers, most of them fairly and admittedly weighed down by boxes and bags and kettles. One customer seemed to be quarreling with who must have been the store manager, most likely over the price of a porcelain cup. I didn't pay much attention. I only drank hot chocolate, anyway. I was sitting away from the tea shop and directly in front of Flannery's Pub because I was expecting to meet a friend in about nine minutes. Most people would have said ten minutes, but my digital watch liked to scream specifics at me, which made me wish I had an analog watch instead, one even without notches in between the five minute slots. Nearby, a bus was idling near the clock tower, waiting for an old man to shuffle up the stairs into a seat. He was fumbling with something in his coat, mumbling as h...

The whole damn thing felt scripted. You had to make dialogue like this up. Yet, there it was, in the flesh, raw and improvised and meant to be viewed as completely natural. The boy was angry, shaking his fists and grunting. The girl, as if performing a perfect stage direction, threw her glass of wine in his face. The next act was almost too much, as the boy howled, jumped up, and almost bounced up and down with fury. I half-expected the restaurant patrons to stand up and clap.