The Smooth Drop Cafe - Rich Chocolate
It was 7.30p.m. when I walked into the cafÃ©.Â I remember it well.Â After all, this coffee emporium was not your run-of-the-mill cyber cafÃ© or slop house for the down and out.Â No, sir!Â The Smooth Drop CafÃ© was very posh and very expensive.Â That’s why I’d avoided it like the debt collectors until now.Â I should have known better!Â However, the establishment was reputed to be very romantic, and it was the 14th February.Â So there was a chance of a lonely heart, with a drop-dead gorgeous figure, going begging.Â Oh, fool, fool that I was!
The place was crowded with moon-struck couples, frigid lesbians and marauding packs of savage lionesses.Â It didn’t auger well for stumbling over Ms Right looking for me.Â However, not being your run-of-the-mill saint, I was perfectly aware that the flowers which festooned the place were there to lull the gullible into a false sense of security.Â One wrong move, such as me approaching the group of hungry females measuring everything in pants, would instantly see the flowers become funeral wreaths.Â But divine providence was keeping a protective watch, for not a single measuring stare lingered on me.Â Worse luck!Â Thus I was cast into solitary confinement.
To make my penal servitude more bearable, I mortgaged my house and purchased a cup of skinny flat white coffee.Â A mug of the brew would have meant selling my mother as well.Â I would have but she was dead.Â To my mortification as I placed the order, even the waitress behind the counter looked down her nose at the riff-raff standing before her.Â Yet as God is my witness, my motor cycle boots and leather jacket were perfectly colour co-ordinated with my jeans and T-shirt â€“ all in tasteful jet black.Â And such was only sensible for a knight on his trusty motorcycle, braving the car demolition derby nightly on the roads.Â And despite the waitress’s aloof manner, I knew that Ms Right would approve of my sensible appearance.Â Perhaps that’s why she wasn’t here.
I’d only taken a sip of my tepid skinny flat white when an oaf bumped my elbow â€“ sending most of the coffee over the back of a woman in a strapless dress standing in front of me.Â It is no exaggeration to say that she was a tad less than amused.Â Her heartfelt words would have done a battle-hardened sergeant-major proud.Â I’m sure that Ms Right would have been more understanding.
But be that as it may, the oaf who’d caused it all immediately ingratiated himself with the fish-monger’s wife.Â With a concerned tut-tut, he conjured a red rose out of the air and presented it to the hussy.Â I had to give it to him â€“ he was smooth as rich chocolate.Â Soon the Jezebel was simpering as he dabbed at her back with a silk handkerchief.Â He was murmuring things under his breath and flirting outrageously with her.Â Some people simply have no shame.Â Nor was Salome’s escort amused.Â He spat the dummy and stormed out of the cafÃ© as the trollop continued to flirt with the chocolate oaf.Â Oh, you foolish, foolish man!
And foolish, foolish woman!Â For a short while later, the aforesaid oaf had abandoned her for a group of hunting felines.Â I had to hand it to him – he was a real lion when compared to the sheep in motorcycle boots.Â But needless to say, I wasn’t insane enough to approach the woman in the strapless dress who didn’t appreciate skinny flat whites â€“ that would see the sheep become a lamb for the slaughter.
What could I do but leave the lion’s den?Â I idly wondered if Daniel would have felt like that.Â Would he have just simply ridden away on a Biblical motorbike, assuming God had handed them out instead of tablets of stone?Â It was a moot point, and I headed towards the front door.Â But I was cut off by the chocolate oaf â€“ the fellow really was everywhere.
“Sorry about earlier on,” he said apologetically.Â He thrust out a manicured hand. Â “I’m Saint Valentine,” he said.
Not being churlish, I shook it.Â One knave in the place was enough.
“I didn’t catch your name,” he said.
“Saint Nicholas,” I replied flatly.
He grinned.Â “Of course you are.Â That’s why you were giving away free coffee.”Â He chortled, and slapped me on the back.Â “But, please, let me get you another one,” he added, as a saint would do.
Naturally, I declined.Â I was no run-of-the-mill saint, easily bought off.Â Besides, he was raining on my parade.
A burst of female laughter drew my gaze to three hungry lionesses â€“ they were looking our way.
“It’s the call of the wild,” I said to Saint Valentine.Â “I think it’s for you.”Â I should have added, ‘Be afraid!Â Very afraid!’Â For the lesbian lionesses would tear him limb from limb.Â But I let him go to the slaughter â€“ who was I to rain on his parade?
He headed eagerly into the wilderness; and I heard the fat lady singing lustily.Â As I stepped into the night, there was a smile on my lips.Â For like a flash of divine revelation, it had suddenly occurred to me that Ms Right would never be found in The Smooth Drop CafÃ©.Â No!Â She’d be out there in rider’s boots and black leather jacket on a rumbling motorbike, looking for me.
Gentlemen, start your engines.