she: olive oil and sea salt cinnamon smoke in late summer sun
he: late nights and Mahler embers whirling in blue green moonlight
why so sad he shimmers
because we’re already lost she whispers
he stops her words before she can say more
a kiss so focused so pure in intent the world falls holds its breath and with it everything outside of that moment
He was rage red. His nape bulged suffocating his neck with a bulbous scarlet ridge, its weight seeming to pull his heavy head in and back . His England T-shirt and shorts clung to the folds and contours of his stocky body revealing large white limbs patchy with scarlet blotches as though having been repeatedly beaten. Superimposed were tattoos lording his affiliations – badges of honour to Queen, country and Arsenal. He held the cafe door open with one hand, two large rings sat on his fingers, the kind that brand flesh like seals in wax. Engulfed in the other, was a small grey cardigan. In tottered an old man, frail framed and shuffling, his slippered gait shushing the floorboards. White shirted and gossamer haired, he glowed a little under the energy-saving bulbs of the garden centre coffee shop, a sprite from neither here nor there.
The red man turned and pulled out a chair for the old man at the table opposite. The old boy followed his lead, pidgeon-stepping forward. Each tiny adjustment in his movements was a dance; lock and release, wobble and regain, straighten and bend. He finally sat himself down. His features were delicate, feminine with large dark eyes that seemed to be looking at the world and only seeing something wondrous like a child blissfully building a snowman not noticing the grey car-mashed slurry spitting up goo every time someone drove by. ‘There you go old boy,’ rasped the red man and ordered tea from a squirrel faced girl waitressing her way through 6th Form. ‘Tea’s coming’.’
I devoured a scone, dog-wet and shivering from being caught coatless in a downpour and hoping to dry off a bit before the dank sank into my chest and snarled at my lungs. My glasses steamed up and I wiped them on my top, nose running but relieved to be in the warm. I was trying to work out what to do. Things had been quite tight recently and I was quickly running out of options. Where once was the comforting bounce of notes in my purse, there was now only the jingling of copper and silver shrapnel, remnants of the lost war on skint-ness that’s ravaged my bank account turning it into a craggy barren no man’s land. I shouldn’t be here scoffing scone. My job applications hadn’t been received with much enthusiasm. This was how the chase-up calls usually sounded:
‘Hello, I sent in my application but haven’t heard anything back, yet. Could you confirm if you’ve received it, please?’
‘Why certainly. Can I take your name?’
‘Sure. Ms Nanar Vorperian.’
Pause.
‘I didn’t quite catch that.Can you…’
‘Yep. Ms Nannaar Vorpeeerian.’
‘Oh. Ok. That’s an unusual…’
‘It is. Would you like me to spell it?’
‘Yes, if you could.’ Awkward laughter.
‘I can.’
I spell it.
‘Bear with me.’
I am on hold.
‘Yes. We did receive your application but unfortunately you were unsuccessful this time. Sorry.’
‘Oh. That is a shame. Would you know why this was the case?’
‘Well, Miss…ermm…the fact is the standard of applications was very high and we did get a large number of applicants this time.Sorry.’
‘I can appreciate that TA/ admin/ dog walking/ housekeeping/ writing copy/ audio typing/ receptionist/ whatever other mind-numbing job you can find on Indeed (select as appropriate) work is in high demand.’
‘If you email [insert name and email address] they might be able to help answer your question.’
Needless to say, Insert Name doesn’t really clarify anything and the search goes on. I have drawn some conclusions from the tone of the responses but don’t want it to colour how I see the world or the people in it. I don’t want this to be what defines how I fit in-or don’t-to any given environment.An old Sanskrit text tells us that all experiences are lessons and that we’re always learning. That experiences repeat until we learn what we are meant to from them.That this is the divine rite of every human being here. I found myself at a loss. If this is true, what was I missing? What was it that I wasn’t understanding? I looked into my tea but no messages appeared there-just a soggy teabag and a slowly solidifying brew. I tried not to let the disappointment in. I plugged that little voice of panic which arises now and again. Stay focused on the solution, not the problem. Suddenly, I felt very weary. Does change always have to feel like this, I wondered.
‘Let’s go for a walk, old boy.’ The red man jiggled his legs under the table. His hands were upturned as though in offering. His self-defining symbols and markers disappeared revealing his palms all pink and white like the underbelly of two pitbulls. His signet rings shone like collars cutting into his stubby fingers. He was holding his father’s pale hands in his, old bones brittle and jutting under loose skin. He reached out a giant paw and, with a red napkin, gently wiped a dribble of tea from the old man’s chin. The old man was mumbling something, voice high and words softly sung and completely unintelligible, spoken not for us but maybe heard and understood by those in the neither-here-nor-there; those in the Thin Places.
The red man bowed his head and lowered his big dark eyes.As his shoulders fell, I saw the anger give way to something sore. He gulped down his anguish and with his thumbs stroked the backs of his father’s trembling hands. ‘C’mon, old man,’ he said.’Let’s go for a walk.’ His father smiled dancing his way back up to a standing position, mumbling as he went. The red man gently placed the little grey cardigan around his father’s shoulders. He took his hand, now father now son, and lead the way. The old man shuffled along behind him, disappearing out of the coffee shop and into the rain.I asked for the bill and teased a crumb around the table.
I’m sitting here in my usual spot in my local Inn with a coffee watching a circle of women chatting about their weekend. I catch the words or phrases thrown in my direction before heads turn or laughter drowns out those sounds –pleasure, Louise who was similar, she gave me all the back ground, especially when he knew, I had to really…y’know- laughter again. Voices like rainfall in breezes and I am floating invisible across a universe three meters long and eons wide. It’s a usual affair; outside looking in then out again. My eyes flit to the windows. Glass hundreds of years old hold time in their liquid bellies and warp the parked cars, geraniums and the face of a man peering in from the street.He is painting the wall and window frames with a suitable shade of Georgian grey. Did our eyes meet? It’s hard to tell through the glassy melt. It’s my mood today, half in my shoes and half barefooted running the dewy hills, cold and shimmering. Alive. What beauty is it I am longing for when I am surrounded by so much of it, here in m little cottage on the downs? I feel the ache but have no cause. Soak up the autumn sun, my knowing sings to my feeling, the gauzy light, its dappled applause, beguiling, smile my apple-scented Earthling. I smile and the loss swells, it resonates ringing through melting windows and deco-mirrors, mason jars, wine bottles and lightbulbs dancing a harmonic samba high above the voices of the ladies and their tales of weekend dalliances. I am not unhappy, no misunderstandings please. It’s something else. It’s some edge to the air I breathe, clean and sweet, sharp and cutting as it was in Montreal that winter when I found and lost myself in the arms of blizzards, Kerouac and my dark-eyed lover.
I meditate. For clarity. And the answers I get are more complex and magical,yet I know the core of it must be simplicity at its most elegant-Fibonacci on the ears of my boys, shaped like Africa-like mine. Will they hear those icey ideas ampilified through time and heredity, that speak of separatation, deep-set dislocation, crystallising our bloodline, ball-and-socket heirlooms ossified all out of shape, venerated and kept in a reliquary passed down through the centuries which they will carry through me? I want to be lighter for their sake. But how? Without shedding this exquisite burden. Icarus bound by weights might still be flying never knowing the stratospheric euphoria from thinning air, the delicious sting of dripping wax on cold skin or the glorious surge of his own downfall.
The ladies are leaving. They plan their next meeting, It was so good to see you! Such a good idea to catch up, let’s do it agin soon. The man is still painting, only now the warping panes frame his hands misshapen into arthritic, swollen, elongated version of themselves, the portal rushing him fifty years forward. A new couple sit in the chairs opposite me: a slim, tall straight-backed woman, her hair dark and short lifting away from her nape like the neck feathers of a clucking hen; and her counterpart- a vole, with the aura of schoolbooks and Sunday services hanging about her rolls. And me? Paying for my coffee smiling with my hand over my solar plexus covering the hollow.
Coffee Shop Chronicles and Tea Room Tales 