Green fur-collared jacket, tight black jeans, a scarf of ornate floral curls. Exquisitely set dreads, tied up and round in an Escher loop and draping her shoulders. Lips a-twinkle with balm.
Her handbag held close, she taps a reply into her phone. She’s thinking. Careful typing. She’ll pause every so often, jab her thumb a few times to delete something, then nod as the right phrases pool.
It vibrates, and she grins a little. Repeats the process. Completely absorbed.
Day shoes, bright jumpers, bags filled with scarves and paperbacks (for the train). They’re chatting about service at banks (terrible) and waiting rooms (odd) while sipping from chunky mugs; one pot between two.
Red hair sports bulging, plastic jewellery. She leans on the tabletop and issues more pointed gestures with her anecdotes.
Orange hair leans into herself. Her right leg is folded over her left and her arms switch across her body in different ways almost continually.
Beard, grey jumper, a flash of a blue t-shirt peeking from beneath the collar. Wire-framed glasses reflecting the blue/white glow of a Mac.
Concentration. Leaning into the laptop. Typing in bursts. When words come they spit out in fifty-character clumps, hard slaps of the return key signalling beats and breaks in pace.
In these pauses his head stares at a tilt. His right hand pauses to thump on the keys again while the left draws down his face.
Chef’s belly is round and neat, and it hangs a little over the edge of the counter. The apron swipes up seeds that plink from the chopping board a few inches above.
He grips rolls of rice and avocado and glistening fish, hefting the wraps into place to slice and chop, plating them up and plopping them onto the conveyor.
A new leaf of seaweed, a fistful of rice, a slender deep-fried prawn. He curls it into place with gloved hands.
Her voice rolls out around the pool and into the changing rooms, slapping off the water and cracking back from windows and the double-height ceiling before landing on the ears of the boys she’s instructing. They clutch the poolside, feet churning to keep above water.
She’s tall. Black tracksuit bottoms and a white polo shirt that sweeps around her pregant belly. Hair curly – very curly – and tied into a topknot that adds something like eight inches to her.
They listen.
Bright tracksuit top, blue bottoms, a deep blue beanie. She’s getting tired, swatting tennis balls towards her young charges only to watch them smash the balls astray. She’s urging them to aim, to be patient, to direct their shots back to her in the centre of the court. Before long her basket has been reduced to a handful of bright balls and she’s pleading for them to return service.
After forty-five minutes she’s very nearly successful, but the lesson ends instead.
Squatting by the low wall, shout-chatting to two friends over the path. They don’t glower at passers-by but they do swallow their words. The glum-quiet sulk forces people to pick up their pace.
She’s got a thick denim jacket on, bulky at the shoulders and broad in the back. She’s large, but the coat’s a size larger. Her jeans, by contrast, are skinny. They stretch behind the thighs, straining with the crouch.
How do you describe swimming?
At a distance this guy’s got a steady pace. Breaststroke. Bobbing. There’s a glide/stop/glide/stop rhythm to his movement, where his whole body pauses to gulp air. It’s a slow way to swim. Automata-consistent though; he doesn’t slow over ten minutes.
He’s got a tight sweep to his arms that keep his elbows close to his chest. They have to do a lot of work though. His legs haven’t much kick, drifting wide and long with each stroke.
He stands slightly apart from their horseshoe, straight backed, hands clasped. White robes knotted at the waist with a black band. He doesn’t move much.
Class arrayed before him, he keeps his gestures to directions, picking people two at a time to demonstrate kicks and throws in the middle of the group. Sparring over, they face him for critique. This, again, comes in short, direct gestures. Very brief comments.
He’s round, broad in the chest, waddling about the estate in a branded fleece and throwing thumbs up to the regulars. The instructors and teachers down on the courts wave back.
His hair’s had assistance. There’s a tide mark separating the point where it’s been replaced and where it’s fading. It’s all blowing in the crosswind.
His face is a little flush with the stride but his grin is bright.
Black skinny jeans, navy cons, white socks – white socks? – behind a brown leather apron. Slim grey t-shirt, thin glasses, neatly trimmed beard and a hair, just a little tuft of a fringe poking forward.
When he’s still – and that’s not often – his legs and back are straight, but his neck rolls forwards a little and he clenches his fists by his groin. A silent stretch. Otherwise he flits between the expresso machine and the filter rack, pouring signature cuppas in sequence to high demand.
Grey suede-y Nikes looking chunky at the end of black tights. Soft light-brown apron, black skirt, a white shirt covered with sprawling blue line art.
She glides gently through the tiny waiting area, taking orders with clasped hands and a patient expression. She’s kind on accents, repeating orders directly and unhurriedly to make sure it’s down right.
Swiping tables clean of the bits left behind. Sensitive enough to steer clear of the fraught couple chatting near the corner.
I’m crap at shoes. It’s a blessing seeing people at a distance, or sat down, because I can’t see what’s on their feet. It’s the longhand equivalent of a Rob Liefeld drawing; keeping extremities off-panel so my lack of ability can’t be called out.
Anyway, at Monmouth Coffee my vantage point is behind three baristas dealing with the lunch crush. Their colours are muted, their jeans are all tight, and two (bless ’em) are wearing cons. The other is wearing these clog/plimsol things... in a felt-y fabric... or something. I’m crap at shoes.
Blue face, lit by a phone in a gloomy pub back room. The windows are big and wide, but the sun’s dropped and the lighting is low. Really low. Even the candles on the tables are in little red goblets, dimming the wicks.
Puffy black coat zipped-up, she’s tucked into it, wine at arms length. Waiting for someone, but not making herself comfortable. Her left leg is clamped tight across her right and she keeps her eyes to her phone, looking away in concern from time to time.
Leather coat, blonde beard, green beanie wrapping stiffly set hair – it bulges with it. Glancing at the window and waiting on an arrival.
Confident at first, as the wait stretches on his pose collapses inwards. He starts out leaning back on the sofa, open and broad. Handsome. Under the jacket is a buttoned undershirt, and it’s open enough to show some skin.
After thirty minutes alone he’s wrapped around his phone, clutching it with both hands.
White jogging bottoms, white tracksuit top, tote slung over her shoulder. She hares it out of the car park and around the empty tennis courts, making for the leisure centre entrance and disappearing inside.
A few minutes later she comes out, treading slower and head down. Her walk’s stiffer, leaning forward, and there’s a chunkier bag over her shoulder now. She takes a different route out, up the stairs and away into the street.
October 2014 | November 2014 | December 2014
Temple Studios | January 2015 | February 2015
March 2015 | April 2015 | May 2015
June 2016 | July 2016 | August 2016