I met my older self for coffee.

She’d flown in, just to see me. It wasn’t awkward when we met at the door; she still knew the place well, although it had been a while. She told me about a dog that used to sit on the sofa in here, whining for her parent who was frantically caring for the local caffeine addicts — but never too busy to speak to her soothingly from over the counter, encouraging customers to sit with her while they waited for their brews. I thought I knew the dog she meant, but she wasn’t there that day so we couldn’t be sure.

I asked if the coffee still tasted that good in Melbourne. She replied, ‘better than ever’. Her accent didn’t sound as mottled or misplaced any more, it seemed to have found its perfect mix — its home.

We went to sit at one of the tables outside, without debate, as we both knew it was our favourite spot. I met myself in her gentle eyes, deeply but firmly set amongst folded lines and beneath silver brows — a different, darker silver than the coarse shock of it on her head, so bright it almost reflected the Springtime sun.

We crossed our legs simultaneously, in perfect alignment with each other. She noticed me fiddling under the table, moving my rings from one finger to another. I explained that while some would call it ‘stimming’, I think of it more as ‘grounding’. I noticed that she on the other hand (literally?) was very still, but in a calm way, not controlled.

Was it all a dream?

I was relieved to see she was still adorned with ink and silver. Almost encrusted. Ornate, oxidised creations broke up her fingers, lump-like pendants dangled and tangled together on her chest, enormous hoops swung either side of her head. I didn’t recognise all of the tattoos as some, I realised, were yet to come. Our coffees eventually appeared, and as she stirred her (oat) milky latte — ‘I can’t drink like I used to!’ ‘Oh, no more whisky or gin?’ ‘Ha! No, both of those, I mean the espresso of it all!’ — I caught a leafy crown peeking at me from inside her fluted sleeve and smiled to myself, happy to see the one I’d always wanted but always put off, as I was reluctant to publicise my love of seaside folklore.

‘How’s our buddy doing?’ I couldn’t help asking, but managed to refrain from touching my head, or nodding at hers. The same head, half a lifetime later.

She smiled. ‘He’s behaving, still.’

‘And—’

‘They’re fine, too.’ She said, losing the smile ever so slightly for just a split second, but it was enough to tell me we’re not out of the woods yet. I probably have more hospital trips ahead of me.

‘Be more mindful of food,’ she added then, her face brightening. ‘Pay for expert advice. Foot doctors aren’t a luxury either, you know.’

I laughed, thinking she knows me so well. Of course.

Then I asked her if it gets better. She replied by asking me where I was now, and what I was doing. She joked that she could almost tell which timeline I was from by the tattoos I did and didn’t have, and the fact that I still had long hair — but she still needed me to put a pin in the map.

‘I don’t know what I’m meant to be doing,’ I said, simply. ‘I’m lost. I’m happy in myself — I’m healthy, physically and mentally… mostly.’

She waited, taking a sip from her cup. Steady hands, a twin flame in her eye.

‘Therapy is still helping. My self worth is actually really good! Despite everything,’ I didn’t worry about babbling, because I knew she’d understand. I watched her lower her cup and cock her head, inviting me to ask the clichéd question. Daring me to.

‘What do I do next?’

The grin unlocked and unfurled across her lived-in face — like waves parting, or stage lights turning onto an audience. Then she said, ‘write the book.’

*

Original post, inspired by the same poet whose social media reach exploded (and then sadly, as with every viral sensation, her lore got a little lost) — 'That social media trend'.

...and here’s Jennae’s website / Instagram; enjoy!

Thank you for reading.