A. G. Travers

Hungover in the CafΓ©

Hungover, standing
in a cafΓ©
looking at the line of
white middle class vermin
behind the counter.
Outside, the bright October sun
invades and cauterises –
bright gold beams pierce
untinted windows
burn oak floors
and rap against the soft parts
of my skull.
I look up.
Four in front.
A slim, olive-skinned girl serves
one patron every
six minutes.
I just want water.
Give me water.
An old man steps up.
He wants a boiled egg.
They don’t boil eggs.
They negotiate for poached.
I tap my fingers and stamp my feet
and the family behind me thinks
I’m scum.
Next, next, next.
I fall forward against the
polished counter.
“Bottle of water."
The slim girl looks.
“We only have four-hundred mil bottles."
“Give me four."
“We only have one."
I grind my teeth and take it.
It was five dollars.
I was thirsty
all day.

About the Author

A.G. Travers studies Creative Writing and Education at the University of South Australia. She has contributed to Verse Magazine, In Parentheses, and Wingless Dreamer. She is currently writing her fifth novel.