More people were coming in the cafe and still the person he was waiting for have not yet to show. A waitress, with an obviously intended low neckline, sauntered towards him with his tea, gave him a little but enough distraction from the raising noise of the cafe's patrons. She pushed the sachets or condiments or whatever the hell it is called towards him and walked away. He scoffed looking at the brown sugar and white sugar sachets.
He remembered back when they were together. She was never a romantic, and that was the problem. Her nos were quick but her yeses were too long to be waited. He teased her about it, only to have her rolling her eyes and calling him a girl. He had had enough one time, telling her that he better of dating a plywood, which was equivalent of her body. He remembered how she looked when he told her that. The next day, after class, she handed him sugar sachets with scrawling she called her hand writing saying "You're my white sugar" and the other "I'm your brown sugar" obviously implying the total difference of their skin pigments. He laughed and they kissed.
But those were the days, and at the current moment, the other bloody sachets were staring up to him and pushing those currently, irrelevant, not - important, why-the-hell-do-I-remember-all-these fucked-up memories to his head. He sighed, took out his phone and punched out what can be considered as a greeting.
His girlfriend came in, rushed towards him and profusely apologised. He shrugged and they continued their day in what the writer can only describe, probably annoyingly sweet. Somewhere in the middle of the date, when the girlfriend was in a dressing room, he checked his phone and found a reply. He checked again for the coast to be cleared and read the message. "Fuck off you bloody cheater"
He chuckled. Well, who says cancer changes anyone.
