It seemed like his stomach was being wrung out. He needed the toilet, his armpits were drenched, it was first thing in the morning but he was awake and alert as if about to parachute into a warzone. A film of sweat had formed between his palm and the brown paper bag which he held tightly, the hard round florets protruding inside.

 

The queue shuffled forwards, and James with it. Everyone was abiding by their normal routine. Some were at the counter paying, some were sitting with friends or colleagues, chatting, others were by themselves reading the paper or scrolling on their phone, drinking their coffee. Munching their greens.

 

He looked back at the stack of newspapers on the side. The one he’d read was on top, scruffy and non-uniform after he had slammed it down. It was scrunched at the edge where he had gripped hard after catching sight of the headline. Suddenly, he caught a disapproving glare from a woman a few places behind him. He snapped back into position, facing ahead as the queue shuffled forward. Again, he went with it.

 

He was nearing the front now – the time was nigh. Doubts were creeping in about whether this was necessary. Word might even get back to the office. But then, so what if it did? None of his colleagues spoke to him anyway, still angry because of the late nights he used to do in the office. He had expected it would be a good thing to stay in the office and put in extra hours – a demonstration of work ethic. If anything, he had thought they would admire it, and certainly that his superiors would be impressed. They hated it. His colleagues were cold and the emails from HR telling him to desist were relentless. His line manager even gave him a stern reminder that the advised hours – advised by the government no less – were for his own health. ‘They’re for everyone’s health,’ he had added, ‘that’s why we all stick to them.’

 

It was five years since he’d bounced into the job fresh out of university with visions of one day being a managing director. Now, he was slumped at a computer all day, clicking on emails, reading them, replying. The only break was lunch which was the same every day: plain rice, plain tofu, raw greens. No sauces because sauces had health risks. This was after a breakfast of raw broccoli every morning, which everyone in the country religiously stuck to.

 

But it was the article that had done it for him. Now, he’d had enough. It was his birthday this weekend and he had been looking forward to it, building it up in his head as a chance to treat himself. After a lot of thought, and after forcing himself not to worry about price, he had decided it was shoes he wanted. Specifically, and following weeks of researching styles and materials and saving up the money, he had concluded that he wanted brogues. Oxfords, in oxblood. Classy, gentlemanly and sophisticated.

 

The plan had been to make a day of it this weekend by heading to bond street and browsing the best shops for the finest pair. That was, until he had opened the paper that morning. ‘Laced shoes cause cancer,’ ran the headline, followed by an article declaring that laces increase a wearer’s risk of foot cancer by seventeen percent. And just like that, the brogues were gone. James knew that if he were seen with laced shoes after today, even the ones he was wearing now, he would be shunned. There’d be whispers in the street, he’d be barred from pubs, and his friends? They would never talk to him again.

 

This was when he had thrown the paper back on the pile, and this was when he had resigned himself to queueing for broccoli, heading to the office and getting through the day ahead. But then he had thought – why? Get through the day for what – to survive and earn money and not get sick? Well, he would definitely survive a long time, but when would he live?

 

Now he was at the front of the queue. Now was his time. His jaw was quivering and he was rehearsing the line in his head, looking up as if the words were written on the inside of his brow and nodding as he mouthed the phrase. When he realised that he still had the broccoli in his hand he threw it into the drinks fridge beside him.

 

A till became free, he marched forward. The girl was holding her hand out for the expected veg packet. Instead, James delivered his line:

 

‘Hello, can I have a bacon sandwich please?’

 

She recoiled in horror. The café went silent.

 

Creeping back to the counter, she said, ‘we don’t sell that here. Don’t you know it could shorten your life?’

 

‘Really?’ said James, feeling himself become taller, ‘but what sort of life would it be without bacon?’

 

There were gasps, a muffled scream from behind. The girl clapped her hands over her mouth and stood, eyes wide, filled with horror. James took this as his cue to leave. He strode back through the café with his chest out, impervious to the stares.

​

Outside, sunlight was beginning to lick the dark morning clouds. James started thinking about other cafés where he could go and do the same thing again.