The Golden Dragon

Ellen turned the ‘closed’ sign on the door of the Golden Dragon cafe to ‘open’. It was still early, only half past seven, and there was half an hour left before the office workers would crowd in for breakfast. It was going to be a warm day, though this early, the street smelt cool. After making sure everything was clean and working, the pastries were fresh and hot, and Cleo was installed behind the counter, Ellen took a moment to stand in the open doorway and look up and down the street. Her favourite customer hadn’t arrived yet. The roadside in front of the cafe was still empty. Ellen sighed, and walked back to the counter.
      No sooner had she got there, when she heard the throaty roar of a vintage Harley. Cleo laughed when Ellen smiled broadly.
"Gets you every time," Cleo said with a chuckle. "Rain or shine, your Romeo comes in and you’re walking on air."
"Will you shush," Ellen hissed. "I don’t want him to hear."
      The bell above the door dinged and in he walked. He was tall, easily 50-something, with grey hair and a short grey beard. His leathers were dark brown and cracked and scraped with age, and a fawn-brown dragon was painted on the back of his jacket. His boots were calf length and scuffed. He carried a brown helmet, which he left in the rack conveniently placed near the door. Ellen watched as he walked across the cafe to the back of the room, and sat at a small table. There were two places set and two chairs, but as always, he moved one place setting and one chair to another table. The message was clear: table for one and one only. So far, he was the only customer.
      Cleo nudged Ellen.
"Well, we can start the day, now he’s here," she said, laughing.
      Ellen went into the storage room behind the counter to gather her thoughts for a moment and calm her beating heart. Yes, she liked him, a lot, and she wished that Cleo had not wrinkled it out of her. Cleo followed her, grinning.
"I told you," she said, "you should try one of those dating apps. You’ll find someone one better that way. There’s no point in waiting around for him. He won’t say anything to you, and you won’t say anything to him. You’re a pair of idiots."
      Ellen stalked out of the storage room and went to the brown dragon man, as she always called him to herself.
"Coffee?" she said.
He nodded.
"Anything to eat?"
"No thanks," he said, "not hungry." He always said no, but she always asked.
      He didn’t even look up from the newspaper he had taken out of the pile at the end of the counter. It was yesterday’s news but he found something to interest him. Ellen went back to the counter and started the eldritch process of making his usual black Americano with a small jug of hot milk on the side. None of that fancy latte, caramel, mocha, protein, matcha or weird nut milk either. He’d told her that on the first day he came into the cafe, and Ellen never got his order wrong.
      The Golden Dragon was not a fashionable cafe, but it had built up a steady stream of motorbike riders, and some men and women from the office blocks. It was one step up from a greasy spoon, but two steps down from a city-centre coffee shop run by uniformed baristas. Ellen didn’t call herself a barista. She worked the machine and learned not to be afraid of the steam. She couldn’t work out why it happened or how it had happened, but the two disparate groups of people often mingled at the tables, especially towards the end of the day. Except for that one grey-haired, brown dragon man. He arrived early in the morning and left after an hour. And Ellen would not see him again until the next morning.
      The motorbike folk were all members of the "dragons". They all wore shiny black leather and the dragons painted on the backs of their jackets were in vivid green, and blue. On the whole, they were well mannered and behaved nicely. No shouting, no grandstanding, or causing trouble. Among all the men, there was one woman, also dressed in black bike riding gear. The dragon painted on the back of her jacket was golden, so bright it shone. If any of their voices rose above the accepted decibels, the woman stood up, and did nothing more than look at them. That was enough to keep them quiet. The woman, Lisa, Ellen heard someone call her, was like a den mother to the troop. Especially as her partner backed her up. He was a muscular man named Frank, whose jacket dragon was painted in bronze.

      Ellen put the brown dragon man’s coffee, in the nicest cup and saucer she could find, onto a tray. She looked at it for a moment. It was now or never; she was going to make him notice her if it was the last thing she did. Shoot her shot, as Cleo would say. She just hoped it wouldn’t be a damp squib. It occurred to her that he was like a shy, stray cat, which wasn’t socialised and needed her to encourage him to approach her, and not the other way around. Ellen picked up an almond pastry that was still good, though it had been left over from the day before, warmed it a little in the panini oven, then placed it on a plate and added a fork. She wrote a note on a small piece of paper and slipped it under the cup. Then, gathering her courage as best she could, she walked over to his table and put the tray down. He looked at the pastry.
"Not hungry," he repeated.
"It’s on me," Ellen said quietly, "left over from yesterday, Go on, you should eat something you know. You don’t want to faint with low blood sugar, fall off your bike, and end up splattered on the road like strawberry jam."
He looked up at her, and there was the faintest hint of a tiny smile on his lips. He shrugged and picked up the pastry. Ellen leaned forward.
"Good boy," she said, so quietly she thought he hadn’t heard her. But the smile widened a little and he bit into the pastry.
      Ellen walked back to her place behind the counter, feeling like her feet were floating three feet above the ground. Cleo nudged her.
"Brave girl," she whispered. "I think you’ve cracked it."
The breakfast rush began, and Ellen was kept busy, making coffees while Cleo waitressed. Every now and then she realised that the brown dragon man was looking at her with a puzzled expression in his eyes. He stayed past his customary hour. When Ellen picked up his first empty cup, there was another note underneath. She took it out at the counter: I’m 55 how old are you? When he asked for a second cup of coffee, the note she put under the cup read I’m 35 but age doesn’t matter.

      Cleo was exasperated. "Honestly, you two could write War and Peace in a day. Never mind notes, just ask him."
It was quiet in the cafe. The office workers had gone and so had most of the dragons. Lisa and Frank and another couple were sitting nursing their lattes. Ellen made another decision, pulled a second chair to the brown dragon man’s table and sat down.
"Why does it matter?" she said.
He smiled, he actually smiled. A nice smile too, that made Ellen’s heart skip.
"There’s plenty of young men who would love to take you out," he said.
"I don’t see any of them beating a path to my door," Ellen laughed. "Anyway, I don’t care about them."

      He stood up, and Ellen realised he was getting ready to leave. She managed to be near the door after he had paid Cleo, and picked up his helmet from the rack.
Ellen opened the door for him. "Have a lovely day," she said.
He stopped, and looked at the notice on the door of the opening and closing times.
"I’ll pick you up at 6," he said. "Oh, and my name is Rell." Then he left, walking along the pavement to where he had parked his bike. Ellen went back to the counter, walking even higher up in the air. Cleo high-fived her friend.
"Round one to you, I think", she laughed. "But what did you write on the note?"
Ellen blushed. "I wrote, do you want to go out with me? on one side of the paper, and then I wrote dinner or coffee somewhere else? on the other side."
She stared at her friend in shock. "Cleo, I’ve got a date. Oh shells, I’ve got a date!"