The bicycle is old. Paint chips and stickers. Really bare tyres. He’s sitting straight on the saddle.
Slow and easy his hands leave the bars. He pulls a cigarette out of his t-shirt pocket and lights it, mounting the kerb gently and rolling into the park.
The cover over the buggy is clear, taped together at the corners. Their boy is snoozing inside. They pull into shade before Dad – then Mum – uses the pram as a rest for Rizla and Drum Gold. Rattles twinkle as each rolls a cigarette.
He’s not good in the heat. It’s bothering him, and he can’t keep his hand up to hold the sun off. He weaves as he walks, shuffling left and right, stumbling towards handholds (a lamppost, a bollard, a van). He times these lurches to upset as few other people on the pavement as possible.
Bright vest top, baggy boyfriend jeans, black sandals slapping the flagstones. She slows down as she walks by and uses all ten metres of window behind me to tug her hair into shape, looping strands behind her ear, pulling others forward; bunching it up; moving on.
She takes it easy through the park, slow enough the pigeons don’t scatter. Her sticks lands a couple of inches before each step, testing the ground.
Everyone glances at her headscarf. It’s a rich orange, and it seems to glow above her purple shawl. A gold brooch drawing it all together flashes in the sunlight.
So, again, he’s sat on a chair at the very edge of his balcony, facing his neighbours. Every day it’s impossible to tell if his eyes are reading our rooms, judging our pyjamas, critiquing our meals, or if he’s just caught up in watching the reflections of clouds in double glazing and net curtains.
Leaning back into the seat, she grips two folders tight so she can scribble notes on the top-sheet. She pauses every sentence or so to re-read, consider, revise, repeat.
She does a thing I do: looks forward every now and then to judge the bus route and guess when it’ll stop. There’s a burst of words at every red light, with time to think in-between. She has more patience than me.
Crop shorts, red T, both a little tight from the wash. He’s wearing sandals too, dressed for a different kind of day than this turned out. He watches where his pug wanders, no lead, and offers an awkward grin when the dog tries to make a friend.
He catches the eye of my barista and delivers this short wave and big smile, then trots after the dog.
There are gaps in her smile. Between teeth, around teeth, under teeth... spaces where teeth were and where they may never have been.
She leans far back into her seat, looking over her shoulder to watch traffic roll by. It’s interesting sounds that grab her: horns; heavy clunks; a ’foop’ from a lorry; the alarm of a bus deploying a ramp.
Tattoos of stars snake up from under her hoodie, colliding with the back of her ear before they have a chance to spread across her face.
All her tension is drawn forward into a spiteful frown and cross lips, as she snaps at her teenage son. She jumps up from the bench and follows him around the corner, shouting.
I have to remember how to do this again.
In a cafe that means avoiding the window seat, taking a table set back inside and a chair that looks out. On a bus it means resisting the urge to sit at the front on the top. In a park I have to ignore the birds. These are hard habits to unlearn – again – and I notice them every time.
Left hand in pocket, right tugging at the hem of his t. He’s walking slow and low, kind of sat in his stride and taking in the sun. Look, it’s a beautiful day.
Distracted. Nodding his head. He stalls at the crossing, half-stepping out before dancing back and letting the traffic go by.
Black cowboy hat, silver studs, broad sunglasses and a wave for a kid coming past. Guy’s in pretty loose jeans, a white retro t-shirt, and a gilet. Not a lot of that makes sense on one body. But he wears a fat smile, just throws it over the road and at drivers and at the corner shop counter. All his cheeks soften into it. It’s a charming thing.
Tan shorts, Batman cap and t-shirt, battered skateboard. He’s new to it and adorably rubbish. He steps every half meter and it runs out from under him every third go.
He skates up to the roots of a beech tree. Stops. Stoops and hoiks the board over them. Rolls on. He does it all with such focus and concentration and not a trace of joy.
A blazer and three guitars – one on his right hand, two on his back. The straps hold him together as he sweats his way along the road. Slowly his glasses slide down his nose, and he has to lurch his left hand up to shove them up. That seems to reset the map on his phone, and he spends a minute at the crossing finding himself.
October 2014 | November 2014 | December 2014
Temple Studios | January 2015 | February 2015
March 2015 | April 2015 | May 2015
June 2016 | July 2016 | August 2016