The Wrong Order

Artwork by Georgia Beavan-Ensor

After weeks of endless rain, the storm clouds relented. Though grey and threatening, they did not open. Enforced indoor-living, a reflection of our months of isolation, left me eager to be once more in the great outdoors. I embraced the damp day, and inhaling lungfuls of salty air, I walked to my local surf café.

A young man, stoop-shouldered and lank-haired, stood awkwardly in front of the counter.

‘Excuse me. Are you in the queue?’ I asked.

He jumped aside, a fast nervous movement. ‘I guess I should be standing somewhere else. Yes, yes, I’ve ordered.’ His words stabbed the air as his hands gestured wildly, seeming to utter unsayable words. I’d seen him before. Just two years ago, he’d been a tanned year-round surfing dude, with sun-bleached hair and movements sure. The cheeky grin and ready smile were gone.

Minutes later, I sat with friends. We nursed our coffees while the wild ocean roared behind us. The young man had taken his tray of drinks in their takeaway cups, then, red-faced, he charged back to the café almost tripping over in his haste. He held his cardboard tray with trembling hands. ‘I ordered lattes!’ he screamed, despair in his voice. ‘You repeated my order. You knew what I wanted.’

A sudden hush descended over our group. Did we pretend he wasn’t there? Tension enveloped nearby tables as the early morning fog folded us all in a drama we did not want to witness. Later, we talked of the lockdown effect. I thought back to that interminable period of isolation, in which my morning swim had saved me from toppling over the precipice — that period of enforced confinement, which had brought so many people to the edge. Maybe pre-Covid his comment would have been a cheery, “Oh, I think I’ve got the wrong order,” and not a full-on meltdown.

I hope a time will come when he, and many others suffering from the ravages of isolation, are able to experience the world anew.