Coffee with Harry Styles

A Flash Fiction by Ruth Brandt

Shortlisted 2024 WestWord Flash Prize

Photo by Rob Sarmiento on Unsplash

I’m sitting in a café in Clifton, having a pistachio swirl, when in walks Harry Styles. I know who he is of course - that face and walk. Hey, everybody recognises him.

“May I sit here?” he asks and pulls out the chair opposite me.

It’s not so crowded that Harry Styles can’t sit elsewhere and I’m wondering what the joke is, the ‘I’m a looky-likey’ moment, cos even though he’s Harry Styles, I’m not convinced he really can be.

“Please do,” I say, which is rather more formal than my usual. “Pull up a pew,” I add, a phrase I’d swear I’ve not even heard before, except it’s familiar so I must have. “Please sit, Harry?”

See how I dropped his name in at the end with a hint of a question mark? I sort of want him to know I know who he is, if that is who he is, but either way him sitting here is absolutely OK by me. He doesn’t react to my question mark, so I think about drawing one in the air in case the subtlety slipped him by as some sort of confirmation wouldn’t go amiss. But then I don’t want to either cos, after all, this is Harry Styles. It’s just got to be. The way he angles his chin. Oh, Harry Styles.

So, I’m sitting with Harry Styles in a table-clothed café in Clifton, enjoying a pistachio swirl, and I don’t ask why he’s here. It’s his life, his business, and if he wants to sit opposite a super-fan in an expensive café she would never actually go into, then that’s absolutely up to him. He’s entitled to his privacy. It’s about respect and I respect him. But oh my god, it’s Harry Styles and in all the cafés in all the world he’s chosen this one and he’s chosen me. What are the chances? Unless it’s meant to be as I am The One. Which isn’t likely. Not likely at all, cos I’m just me, aren’t I.

The pastry flakes from a pistachio swirl create a bit of an awkward situation when one’s so close to an international mega-star one could reach out and paw him, since they tend to gather on one’s chest. And while it would be lovely if his eyes rested in that general area for a while – pause for a second of full-body weakness and check for a down-there flutter, which there so very definitely is cos this is Harry Styles, oh my god! – I don’t want him staring at grandma crumbs. I pat my chest and scrub round my mouth, just in case. Then I look at him gazing out of the window, all profile, and I see that he’s missed a bit shaving, which isn’t what you’d expect.

“A coffee, Harry?” I ask. “I was going to get one.”

It’s a lie. There’s no way I could even afford the pistachio swirl I have seen on display in the window of this café in Clifton. Truth be told I’ve stood outside, musing on the crunch, nibbling the nuts around my mouth before swallowing, savoured the crisp pastry specks lingering between my gums and teeth. Yet now I’ve allowed myself to imagine I’ve actually bought one, I find I’m paying it no attention at all, cos Harry Styles has gone and joined me.

“Harry?”

I’ve never added a coffee to my wish list because one has to have priorities when it comes to indulging one’s fantasies. But if I’m going the whole hog today, as I appear to be, why not buy Harry Styles a posh coffee? Dinner too? Followed by a week in Tenby. Hell no, two weeks at his pent house in New York, despite me not having the dresses or the knickers, and my bras are a matter of grey shame. Maybe not New York then. “Cappuccino?”

And

                        he

                                                smiles.

Harry Styles has smiled at me. And even though I am only me, fuck the bra and knicker situation cos Harry Styles has smiled at me.

“Maybe I will,” he says.

So I do this thing I’ve seen people do – a little wave of a hand and a nod at the woman behind the counter, who scuttles over.

“Yes,” she pants, which makes me certain that I really must be The One because despite everything, I haven’t panted, which gives me confidence.

“I’ll have a cappuccino,” I say. “And my friend,” – pause, consider, yes – “my friend will have one too.”

See how discreet I am by not dropping his name. In control. Mistress of all. And as Harry Styles and I smile at each other over our matching coffees, he holds my hand in one of his and with his other he strokes a bit of froth from my lip which he licks off his finger oh so slowly. We giggle at that and I know, just know, that Harry Styles is mine for the asking.

But then he lowers his hand and nabs the last mouthful of my pistachio swirl and in a second it’s gone.

“That was mine, Harry,” I say, cos just when I’ve finally allowed myself to go full-on fantasy with a pistachio swirl, Harry Styles has turned up and nicked it.

“Harry?” I want to know what he has to say for himself.

“Sorry,” he says, but it’s too late, cos where’s the respect in nicking someone’s much lusted-after pistachio swirl? He’s blown it and he knows he has cos he stands up, but before he walks away with that face and walk of his, he gives me a sad lingering kiss on the lips, which I don’t return cos it’s a bit wet for my liking.

The café’s customers are looking-not-looking at me, but they don’t say anything cos I am the woman who could have had Harry Styles, if I’d wanted. And they respect that, even though I’m only me.

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Author: Ruth Brandt is a writer and creative writing tutor. Her prize-winning short story collection No One has any Intention of Building a Wall is published by Fly on the Wall Press. Her stories have been widely published and nominated for prizes including the Best Small Fictions and Pushcart Prize.