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...
