The roads in Pembrokeshire wind like a snake through the land. In the dark, it is a moving sea of grey grasses. On the hills, the buttery glow of golden windows, ships on the waves. Streetlight chem trails become fairylights and champagne-entwined kisses. Overhead, a compass bowl studded with flickering constellations: Polaris and Orion’s sword.
The car was loaded with equipment: guitars, drums, amps. We’d been to a gig some place, and it was late. The room that night summer sweaty, pulsing with strobe lights and bouncing bodies. He played; I drank too much Jack Daniels. We packed up, went home, did it all again tomorrow. In the car, sad songs played on the radio at a low ebb over the hushing sound of the wheels. We were at the tail end of a fight (weren’t we always). Two people combusting. Tearing strips off of each other until there was no skin left. No words. No-one’s fault. Both our faults. The grief of mistakes, choices made which could not be undone, loss and anger, hanging in the air like the hint of another woman’s perfume on the sheets.
We stopped at the Vietnamese café by the petrol station. A wooden cabin attached to a neon yellow Shell sign; it appeared as an afterthought. The beguiling scent of spices and stewing broth drifted across the forecourt and mingled with the sickly-sweet petrol, which made rainbows on the floor outside. A bell chimed (ting) when we entered.
A woman came forward and nodded politely (table for two), led us to a rickety wooden bench by the window where we could watch the cars pass and study the mirages left in their wake. Ghosts of dreams in swaddling with tiny hands and feet; best forgotten.
We ordered coffee. Cà phê đá. Our waitress made it at the table. Finely ground coffee beans, mixed with chicory, and pressed through a stainless-steel dripper. The slow, mesmerising drip, drip of dark liquid as it filtered through the press. She looked sideways at us and then added a pinch of something (“ngai”, said with a wink) and a swirl of condensed milk. It tasted like the stars, crisp and biting. Bitter as the night, and silky smooth the way the light touches the moon. It tasted like the smoky, bonfire flavour magic leaves on your tongue.
This, then, would always be the taste of us.
Inside looking out, the world seemed to slow. He took a sip, reached a hand across the table to stroke my palm. Love, he said. Cariad. A spark fell off a lantern and drifted lazily across our hands, leaving a tiny, scorching scar.
4 tsp Cafe Du Monde | 2 tsp condensed milk, to taste | 1 cup boiling water | 1 pinch “ngai“
