Table’s a little high for him, so he’s sat on his knees, arched around his croissant. Plucking chunks off with tiny fingers and plopping them onto his tongue with a grin. Massive green puffy coat, fleecy hood wrapping his neck, beaming at his dad opposite.
The server swoops in with a tumbler of milk and the boy’s eyes go bright. A little prompt from his mum and he calls "Thaaan-keeew!" belnding the words and drawing the final out the final syllable. Sing-song. He fidgets down to sit on the seat, feet dangling.
Scarf over jumper, slowly stepping out of the restaurant and nodding in time to one of the market’s leaking stereos.
Cold hands. Fistful of napkins. She starts taking cutlery from her back pocket and setting places on once-black benches. She’s gentle with the salt and pepper pots (way warier than her colleague, who swipes at sticky benches with a bright blue cloth).
She waves hellos to the market staff as they wander in, and to the little baby staring right at her.
Baby in one hand, twitter in the other, waiting on a latte. He’s shaken milk and formula together, and now he’s scrolling through the morning. Baby knows the bottle isn’t ready, and looks out and around at all kinds of things: the fidgeting boy in the green coat, the cutlery-clinking waitresses, ginger-bearded me.
The dad hits a string of read tweets and swipes the screen black. The latte arrives. In all these few minutes he hasn’t stopped jigging his kid in his arm with a soothing bob.
He reaches out to stop the other person in the room typing. All his concentration is one the question being asked over a crackly Hangout. He needs to throw all that focus into the first words of his answer.
As he starts his reply his tone takes them from warm background to sharp, specific answer. It feels direct, event though it’s a journey. He does it with charm despite the pixels and dropped connections. It’s quite a skill.
Wherever they are, they can’t see his fingers drumming.
On tiptoes at the counter, dipping a few of her chips into a pot of steaming curry sauce. She drizzles the rest over the clamshell of chips.
Her hair is greasy. Her eyes have narrowed behind rimless glasses and her backpack is frayed. She walks delicately, nervously, holding the chips before her in both hands. It makes opening the door a hassle. She shuffles the weight of the box onto one palm and hooks a greasy finger around the handle.
Feet planted on the kerb, leaning into the taxi window. He’s flapping an address at the driver on a tiny bit of paper, haranguing him to ferry a large sack of loaves across town.
Driver’s having none of it. Says he needs a passenger, and no amount of payment on delivery will cut it. He gestures at what I assume is a camera, but I don’t catch why.
So Baker clambers in. Balding, short. Striped trousers under a white apron. He looks pissed off and tired – not a great start to the week.
Black leggings, peach top, fat black trainers. She hobbles along the top deck to a seat, clutching headrests and handholds in the hope of sitting before the driver presses on. She isn’t quick enough. She has to brace herself as the 133 picks up speed, then swing into the chair.
Once she’s down she clasps her thigh and rubs the muscle. Her breath falls out in lumps and her face flushes with blood. She heats up the air around her. She just stares ahead.
As we round the copse we see this golden tree, yellowgreen leaves that appear to catch the light but, actually, it’s the leaves themselves that glow and not the sun.
We walk a little closer. Then under. I have to duck a bit to get by, but after that the clearance is high. The outside is hushed. There’s no wind, and what leaves do rustle are those jostled by birds. They flit about above and shout songs to one-another.
Time was that when The Cough started we’d all glance at one another for support. We’d exchange little grimaces, or even smile a bit. That doesn’t happen anymore. It has become clear that The Cough will never stop.
Instead, a shiver passes around. Some stare blankly ahead, in the hope it will pass. Other twitch a little. Some visibly key the volume up a few dials. Me? I reach for my headphones and clamp them on tight, clenching my fist tight enough to leave nail marks.
Low fixie, Yung Lean leaking from a phone, grey tracksuit and a plain black cap. He gets up to leave as the train pulls into the station, but stumbles in the doorway.
"Whoop! There you go!" There to hold him up is a much older lady. Very straight grey hair, black mac over a baggy floral top. Her handbag is massive, and it overflows with papers and tissues. She smiles at him. He nods back.
As the train finally halts she takes him and the small bike in and asks "Is that for your little brother?" The doors pop open.
Living room mirror. Behind my elbow’s reflection I can see my girlfriend’s foot spinning circles. My hair’s clumped up in the middle, where towel-damp hands have fluffed it up, and my lips are red from nerves (karaoke). My shirt is rumpled in the shoulders – backpack – and there are epic creases in the waist from where it was tucked in.
Overhead lights twinkle off of the mirrorball gloves that rest on this mantlepiece, beside this notebook. My left hand pins this final page down, thumb and forefinger, while my right drags across it with a pen.
October 2014 | November 2014 | December 2014
Temple Studios | January 2015 | February 2015
March 2015 | April 2015 | May 2015
June 2016 | July 2016 | August 2016