For three years, ever since she bought the coffee stand, the handsome Detective Inspector had come nearly every day to buy a cup of coffee on his way to or from work. Usually not at the same time each day; it appeared his schedule varied widely. She would know, she was there all the time to see his comings and goings because she couldn't afford to pay anyone else to cover a shift. Her divorce two years ago hadn't exactly left her financially sound, and she was lucky to still have the stand.
For the first year, he bought just one cup. He wore a wedding ring, like she had, at the time. Oh, yes, she had noticed. She noticed a lot about DI Greg Lestrade. She knew who he was, she read the papers. Usually he came by alone, but sometimes he came with the infamous Sherlock Holmes, sometimes with his colleague, her name was Sally, she thought. Sometimes with other people. But most often alone.
By the second year, he no longer wore the ring. By that time, neither did she. And now he occasionally bought two cups of coffee to take away. Not every day, but quite often. And every time he bought that second cup of coffee, he reached into his pockets for a pen, which he always had. Every. Single. Time. Each time he meticulously initialed each cup with a single letter; his with a G, and the other with an M. Whoever M was liked it with cream and two sugars. He took his black. Apparently he wanted to get it right, because he was always so very careful with the labeling.
By the third year, purchasing two cups of coffee had become quite regular.
On occasion, they might chat a little. He asked what her name was (Violet), where she was from (Hampshire), and other conversational questions. On a nearly daily basis she kept tabs on him; noticed when he needed a shave (always), what color his eyes were (sometimes dark brown, sometimes nearly black, depending on the light), or what shirt he was wearing (she knew every shirt he owned, which leaned towards a preponderance of plaid). He often smelled of smoke and a masculine aftershave which sometimes lingered enticingly after he left.
Once, he accidentally left a pen behind and she kept it. It was a secret memento, her secret connection to him that she liked to look at once in a while. It was still right there by the register, one year later. It seemed likely to be all she would ever have of him. Other than having learned her name, she was still invisible to him; just another fixture behind the counter, like the cash register or the espresso machine. She was in love with him and he didn't even notice.
One day he came by the stand with someone she didn't know. The DI called him Anderson. They bought coffee and sat on a nearby park bench and talked. Then they argued. She had never seen the Inspector riled up before, not even once. She could hear that they were arguing about Sherlock Holmes. It was a little bit exciting to overhear a conversation about Sherlock Holmes, particularly because it appeared that Anderson believed he was still alive. Now that would be news, and to think she had heard it first! DI Lestrade left in a huff but Anderson stayed behind, as if uncertain what to do or where to go. He eventually turned back to the stand and bought a scone.
"Rough day?" she asked him kindly.
He looked up at her, a little bit like a lost puppy. He was rather cute, really. Nice blue eyes. Scruffy hipster beard, hair a little long, but she liked it. She pictured her own long black hair, dyed orange at the tips, her short denim skirt over ripped black tights and big, black leather boots. The DI seemed to have a soft spot for loners and oddballs like Anderson or Sherlock Holmes…and maybe her, she knew she fit that description, too. He was unfailingly nice to her, if nothing more.
"Rough life," he said, joking. "But you just wait and see. Sherlock Holmes is alive. He's coming back."
He took a bite of his scone and with a wink, he left.
He came back the next day, and the next. When business was slow, they would chat. A few days later the DI and Anderson met for their now weekly chat at the coffee stand. Lestrade's phone rang and he wandered off, but Anderson remained by the counter. Having forged a bond with Anderson, she felt she finally had her chance.
"Who's M?" she suddenly asked, watching the DI as he paced back and forth in the distance, talking on the phone.
"M?" Anderson repeated. "I don't know any M."
"But you must. Every time he comes here alone, he buys two cups of coffee. One for himself, and one for someone named M. He always writes an M on the cup. Is it his girlfriend?"
Anderson's brows furrowed as he thought.
"Girlfriend? No, I don't think he has a girlfriend. I don't think he's seen anyone since his divorce, not that I know of, anyway. But there's someone he probably…oh," he finished, recognition dawning. "Molly Hooper. M for Molly. But she's not his girlfriend."
Anderson almost snorted.
"He wishes she was his girlfriend, though. He's got it bad for her. He thinks nobody notices but it's as obvious as the nose on your face. But that's probably never going to happen. She's engaged."
She didn't answer him, lost in thought, enjoying the way the DI's dark wool coat cut across his broad shoulders, the way his scarf framed his handsome face so nicely, the way his silver hair reflected the late autumn sunlight as he walked back and forth talking on his phone. Anderson prattled on as she leaned against the counter, dreamy-eyed, chin propped up with her hands, still watching him.
"And…oh," Anderson finished, his voice dropping off, noticing that she wasn't listening, and he looked to her and then followed her gaze to her object of rapt attention.
His face fell. "Oh. And you've got it bad for the DI. I see. So…"
He quickly drained the last of his coffee and tossed the empty cup in the bin.
"I, ah...guess I'll be seeing you, then." He spun on his heel and quickly left.
Finally noticing his hasty departure, she called out.
"Philip, wait! You've left your umbrella!"
But he was too far away already to hear.
It was not long after when the news broke. Sherlock Holmes was alive. Philip Anderson had been correct all along. In the fever of activity after that, none of them stopped by very often for a few months, even the DI. Recently, though, he had returned to his schedule, back to buying his usual two cups of coffee nearly every day.
One early morning she saw the DI coming down the street, and this time, he was not alone. There was a petite young woman walking next to him with long brown hair pulled back in a pony tail and dressed in a colorful sweater and long knitted scarf like something out of Dr. Who. He wasn't touching her in any way; there was a good foot between them, but it just looked like they were about to come together at any moment from the sheer magnetic pull of his intent gaze as he listened to her talk.
Her heart fell. No one had ever looked at her like that. That could only be M.
They approached the counter and the DI ordered the two coffees, as usual.
"Going back to the morgue after?" he asked M. "I could drop you off at the hospital later."
"Sure, that would be great. Thanks, Greg," M answered in a cheerful, chirpy voice.
Violet couldn't help but study the woman who had stolen away her object of affection. But try as she might, she could find no real fault. M was not was she expected. For some reason she had been expecting some sort of femme fatale type. Maybe the single initial identity all this time had made her think of James Bond movies. But this woman was just…ordinary. She was pretty in a quiet way. The expression on her smiling face made her seem kind. In fact, she looked downright sweet and smart and quirky in a fun way. In different circumstances, they might have been friends.
She finished pouring the coffee and handed it over the counter. This time, he did not need to initial the cups and handed the coffee to M to add her own cream and sugar. Violet's eyes automatically went to M's left hand and, to her surprise and some selfish dismay, saw that there was no engagement ring.
"Ready?" he asked M, checking his watch. "We're already late for that meeting over at the Yard."
"Ready," M agreed, then gave his arm a playful swat. "It's your fault we're late."
"Guilty as charged," he answered cheerfully, without a trace of guilt in his voice.
She watched them as they hurriedly walked away, his hand resting lightly at the small of her back, she looking up to smile at him glowingly and he smiling back down at her. They stood at the kerb to let the traffic pass. Just as M was about to move forward, he suddenly put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her back from the path of a speeding cab that had practically come out of nowhere, Violet drawing in her breath sharply in alarm.
Surprised and flustered by the near miss, M looked back up to him, eyes wide, and spontaneously he hugged her closer to him, one large hand curving around her tiny waist. With the tip of a finger, he tilted her chin up and he slowly leaned down to kiss her gently, as if they suddenly had all the time in the world, meeting forgotten. His fingertips trailed upwards to caress the side of her face, her head still tilted back, her neck arched delicately, her lips opening up under his. Her hands crept under the sides of his open coat and she encircled his waist with her arms, leaning into him. They were both oblivious to the street traffic, the noise, other pedestrians, the world, lingering as long as they could in that moment, time standing still.
When finally they parted, he smiled at her again and reached down to take M's small hand in his own, giving it a squeeze. They stepped off the kerb again, shoulder brushing shoulder, making an exaggerated show of looking each way this time and laughing as they crossed the street together.
Violet suddenly came to her senses as if waking from a dream, feeling a little voyeuristic but also very touched by what she had witnessed. She couldn't have said if that had been their first kiss or their thousandth, something told her their spark would never burn out. Her heart melted against its will. If ever there were two people who were supposed to be together, it was those two. He loved her, it was so obvious. He loved M for no obviously special reason but that…she existed. He loved her just for being her. Quirks and all. And M loved him, too.
Jesus, Violet, she said to herself. Wake up and smell your own coffee.
It was time to let him go. He'd always been polite to her but never once had shown so much as the smallest sign of romantic interest. And M was one reason why. He'd been a lovely, lovely fantasy while she mourned the loss of her own first marriage. But it gave her hope, to think such a man was out there; maybe there was another one who would love her, just because she existed, just for being her.
She was startled out of the reverie she had fallen into again by a familiar voice.
"See what I mean?" Philip Anderson said, with a nod of his head in the direction of the retreating couple. "He's mad for her. She's not engaged any more to that other bloke. Makes me wonder if it won't be long before she's engaged again…"
He sighed as he watched their retreating figures for a moment more and then turned back to the coffee stand.
"It's sickening, isn't it? The way he looks at her," he said, joking, but not without a note of envy in his voice. "They should be in photo frames at Tesco."
It was her turn to sigh.
"I think it's lovely. That man has been systematically wooing her with coffee for years. Coffee and persistence, that is. I'm glad it all worked out. That's a case of true love if I ever saw it."
Anderson raised his eyebrows, surprised to hear her say it.
She reached down behind her, suddenly remembering something.
"You left your umbrella here a long time ago," she said, handing it to him over the counter.
"Oh, thank you," he answered, somewhat distracted. "I guess my mind was on other things when I left it here."
He hesitated before saying more, worrying the umbrella in his hands, oscillating on the pavement in front of the coffee stand.
"I thought that you…that you fancied…oh, bullocks. Listen, would you like to…to have a coffee with me?" he stuttered, nervous. "Oh, Christ, not a coffee, you probably have enough of that. A drink, then. Would you have a drink with me sometime?"
She carefully studied his nervous face. He looked different from the last time he'd come by months ago. He'd shaved and trimmed his beard neatly. His hair was cut but he'd kept it a little long, perhaps out of a sense of rebellion. Also, he was wearing a nice gray suit in place of the baggy trousers and sweaters he usually wore. It brought out the color of his startling blue eyes. All in all, he looked quite attractive.
He noticed her studying him and he looked down at his suit.
"Oh, this. Yeah, have to dress up. I got a job. Not at the Yard. The DI tried to put in a good word for me, but no luck. So, I moved on. I work in a research lab at the University. Good pay, nice colleagues, interesting work. I like it quite a lot."
He was so nervous, standing there in his nice suit and suitably coiffed hair, watching her, trying to read her expression. There was something about the way that he was looking at her that put some pink in her cheeks, made her heart beat a little faster. Had he looked at her like that all along? Maybe she had been too blinded by the DI to see.
She knew all about the business with Sherlock, he'd told her the whole story. The whole thing had cost him nearly everything. But in the end, he had been right. He was smart, that much was clear, but the experience had also made him humble and funny, still idealistic but honestly raw, cleansed by fire.
"So," he ventured again. "Would you like to have a drink? With me?"
She smiled.
"Sure," she said. "I'd like that. I'll give you my number."
She reached for a paper cup and then looked for a pen. Her eyes landed on the pen by the cash register. The pen, the pen of M. She wrote on the cup and gave it to him.
He visibly relaxed and smiled. "I'll call you. Tonight. I'll give you my number, too, just in case. I'm frightfully absent-minded, I can't be trusted not to lose things. Do you have a pen?"
She handed the pen to him. He wrote down his number on an old receipt from his pocket and handed it to her. He gave her a little wave and left with a bit of jauntiness to his step. She watched him disappear down the street and predictably pocket the pen absently-mindedly. She was surprised to find she wouldn't miss the pen at all.
It was time to let that go, too.
Suddenly noticing that he had left his umbrella behind again, she picked it up from the counter, ran her hand lightly over the length of it and smiled to herself.
And it was well past time to let in something new.