Blue jeans, blue sneakers, a faded black waterproof and an extremely dirty tote bag. She’s stood at the hotel entrance with a friend, eyes flitting between her phone and the street signs and the unfamiliar symbols on them. Still, her eyes are wide and her brow is unfurrowed.
She starts turning her phone and then her body to get some sense of place. Her friend begins to do the same, partner to an unchoreographed orientation routine. Her body and then her phone click into place and she wanders on, friend in tow.
Green kaftan, black wool overcoat. His beard is white, sprouting forwards from only his chin, while his chin and cheeks appear smooth and bare.
He walks directly across the roundabout, weaving comfortably from cobbles to kerb to slip past tourists and idlers. His eyes don’t seem to follow his footsteps or the buildings – and that’s what draws my eye. It seems ordinary to him, automatic maybe; a route so regular as to barely register.
Black jumper, wool trousers, black apron, white collar gleaming at his throat. His kitchen cap is set slightly at an angle, and it draws attention to the grey around his temples. A day-old shadow of stubble takes some of the weight from his face.
He glances at the three – then five – diners in quick snips. His left hand clasps his right wrist behind his back, and he paces from the till along the sushi belt. He swings each leg forward to bob along. Waiting for the lunch rush.
Close-fitting poppy-print dress, a white apron, black tights and smart shoes. Her brown hair is in curls and she wears a heavy pendant.
She hovers around the tables with a slightly taller colleague, awkwardly bussing the restaurant’s three diners and looming a little over them. While the takeaway bubbles and bustles, few are pulling up a chair tonight.
Twirling the chain around her neck and swinging the glittering silver, she fingers her necklace frequently for something to do.
Round cheeks and glasses, a standard-issue blue and red jacket. A plain white shirt is visible between his collar, where the zip is down. He has a black and grey beanie on and the signs around his ears point to ’bald’... he’s old enough that I don’t feel guilty writing that.
Wedged into the driver’s cab, he seems too big for his coat and too big for the space around him. He looks vacant. Not tired or grumpy, just absent; shuffling meat units around the city in a big red bus.
Two bald men and a lady, a brunette, all about the same age and size and shape (a little round, a few wrinkles, chuckles and cheer). Colleagues, but they could all be related. Outside an Itsu having a smoke and waiting to swipe in on some kind of nightshift.
The taller – barely – man is suited, the other in jeans and hoodie. Her clothes are somewhere in between, clothes she could well go for a walk in, or meet her line manager.
There’s a beer garden vibe to their chatter, even as they twiddle their passes.
She’s looking over the counter at Leon, very carefully avoiding eye contact with staff and with the half-dozen others waiting on orders. It’s a patient pose – she’s one of four doing it – where she’s half-leaning onto crossed legs and swaying on a hip. The body’s own holding music.
She’s wearing a grey coat that drops below the hem of her skirt, cowboy boots, maybe a jumper or something – I can’t see from here. Also a hat, with a wide round brim. It’s green and carefully kept.
Guardian on the table, iPhone on his lap. Flicking between the two until a particularly engrossing string of texts leaves him holding a half-turned page for a minute... then two... then three, and then National news finally comes to an end.
Jeans, polished leather shoes, a thick blue cardigan over a green t-shirt. Shabby navy overcoat, stubble, short neat hair. Slim, but what there is of him is well-defined muscle. When he gets up from the table he’s careful and upright, his feet float and there’s... poise?
He reminds me of dancers I used to know.
Black shirt, black trousers, black vest; uniform. Blonde hair tied back into a ponytail. Fixed smile. Seething.
He’s slowly turned collegial ribbing into actual insults, while she’s patiently fixed each customer’s coffee and let the words wash over.With each mac, or latte, or flat white or whatever her gestures and motions had gotten sharper and more mechanical. She listened less and less.
Their manager glides from behind the counter, unseen. Gives her elbow a little squeeze. Asks him to come into the office.
Straightening chairs, swiping tables, making work. She’s shuffling back and forth between use and boredom.
Black leggings, grey cons, black shirt, baggy jumper. Ponytail, hairgrips, a bounce to her walk that sort of forces her to appear upbeat.
As soon as new customers arrive she is right on it, and plates clink on the counter, water is steamed, coins and change flies. Between is slow. Today is slow. She’s eyeing her watch a lot, but nothing’s really moving except her.
Paperbacks, iPhones, mugs of coffee. Two men in low-backed armchairs making good the afternoon.
On the left; jeans, blue jumper, sneakers, hair grey around the sides and black on top. Gel sheen. A chunky digital watch and mustard socks.
He’s puffy-cheeked and wears a very neat beard, fresh-cut for sure. There’s a little blush of red starting to form on his neck, and a pale trim where the blade ran a few times.
Crime novel. Ellroy.
Paperbacks, iPhones, mugs of coffee. Two men in low-backed armchairs making good the afternoon.
On the right; brown leather shoes, yellow socks, sky-blue chinos, grey sweater. Bushy beard, well-combed hair, thick-rimmed glasses. Very, very comfortable.
His legs are long and they splay out under the table. He’s sort-of leaning/sort-of melting into the space available, head tilted forward and into the pages. When he’s reading his cheeks set sombre.
Historical Fiction. Faulks.
Treading carefully out of the office, he apologises to his colleague and steps over to the washer. He takes out mugs and cups, wipes them where needed, sets them above the espresso machine gently.
Making coffee; he wipes each component and nozzle, grinds the beans, fills the handle-thing, compresses the puck, slots and clicks it into the machine, sets it running. Fetches milk from the fridge and pours it into a steel jug, steams it carefully – no spitting – blends it into the espresso with the hot milk slowly on the counter.
Red and black wool shirt, bowlie fringe. Walking up the escalator with a bit of a bounce. He’s humming along to something, shoulders rocking with whatever power chords are playing out the bridge. After a particularly strong ’shove’ of his right shoulder his lips start to move.
No ear buds; it’s all in his head.
I reckon his sympathies are with the rhythm section. A singer’d thrash more, and a guitarist might not pause on the break. This kid’s all cymbals and bass.
Slightly muddy black boots, black tights with leopard-print picked out in shinier black, purple waterproof with a white trim.
She’s carefully tapping into a large phone held at arm’s length. It’s held very carefully in her left hand, and she uses her right index finger to compose a message one character at a time.
That done, she switches out to an app that takes even more consideration. The way her eyes move says ’book’, but it could be Candy Crush; reading the consequences of gestures instead of the direction of a narrative.
Long green coat, black leggings, grubby silver trainers, a shiny helmet. Her bike glides to a stop alongside the tennis court and she locks it on the corner before going through the gym doors.
A new face appears at the running machine a few minutes later. An older man, taking it at a slow pace. A brisk amble. His gait is steady and his arms are held close to his body.
Alone in the pool, a lady does laps of backstroke. There’s a heavy slap each time her hand hits the water.
Hurriedly scoffing rice and greens and little chunks of peppery chicken on a high counter at itsu, like he’s being timed. He shovels the food in with a fork, leaving the chopsticks unsplit and unused. I notice him when he starts casting furtive glances at the few other diners.
Buzz-cut at the sides and back, last night’s gel lacquering the rest of his hair unevenly and uncleanly. Skinny grey jeans, thick-rim specs, quite the ’tache. Shiny polyester coat.
When his phone starts buzzing he gets up to go, tidying his place and tray before dashing out the door at the side.
Lots of faces sunk and serious on the end-of-week train out the city, but he looks a shade more alert.
Grey hair and stubble, bright eyes. Grey wool coat, red checked shirt, grey trousers. Gold wedding ring. He taps a large phone with a stylus while yellow in-ear buds relay the mumbles of spoken word.
Work hasn’t stopped yet. He’s careful with what goes into his messages, and doesn’t bounce in and out of apps to do it. Instead he looks up and away.
October 2014 | November 2014 | December 2014
Temple Studios | January 2015 | February 2015
March 2015 | April 2015 | May 2015
June 2016 | July 2016 | August 2016