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This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue... cc&d magazine (v215) (the December 2010 Issue) |
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Order this issue from our printer as an ISSN# paperback book:  or as the ISBN# book “Entering the Ice Age”:  |
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London in the Evening
Natascha Tallowin
What a lark, to be sitting here, watching, sitting here on one’s own in the café of a bookshop, surrounded by these clusters of new and crisp smelling books, tea and cake. Tea and cake! On a Sunday afternoon.
She watched him enter.
He was like a bird for speed, a broken arrow for directness with a quick dark glance, to his unsteady facial features, his eyes were somewhere else. Looking around the room for his source of favoured distraction – she could feel herself watching, over the rim of her tea cup (such nice tea it was, how nice it was to be out in London alone, with no one to talk to) he shifted his weight in his seat.
Through the parting of her hair (she thought of forests – she’d never been to one before, only seen them. At least she thought that they had been forests, she had never been too sure how to tell if the cluster of trees she was busy romanticising was a forest, or merely a wood.)
He flicked a match, twice, three times, dipped his head, and his pipe to the dancing orange flame, long hair, not cropped, not decent.
That’s all he has eyes for right now.
He hated this place, as much as she adored it, he hated it. His mind was blank from searching for the right words to describe his hatred for this place, this London, her London. For a moment he caught the eye of the woman opposite him, he hated her too.
He spilt the milk for his tea. Thoughts of Tibbs, the large brown cat mewing at him at home. Did she have to be wearing that hat? He curled his toes in his shoes, the woman’s hat making him cross.
She straightened her back, remembering her posture, her dress must look it’s best, she was hoping to impress him with her hat (A mock French flourish, she had allowed herself this hat – he would understand) She smiled at him from the rim of her tea cup, a cheerful smile, a smile from the inside of a happy child’s head, she thought, if ever there were such things.
Did it have to be, did she have to be so vulgar? He realised his thoughts were becoming confused with a half forgotten film or play. A vague idea of someone irately wearing an expensive hat. It made him cross again.
All cubist angles and pre-Raphaelite grace, tainting his memories of just a few minutes ago when he had been happy in the park, with the mint green grass and the trees. Now his smoke trails traced the cracks in the ceiling.
She took another sip from her tea cup, pondering his frown, had he seen her smile? A monochrome vision of happiness before it rains, she tries a smile again and straightens her back, perhaps he hadn’t seen. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed her smiling at him.
The dampness sunk into his head again. Why was she smiling at him? How he complained in the rain.
He hadn’t noticed. She couldn’t smile again, she’d feel a fool, like an intruder on his thoughts.
His eyes glazed over the menu, hand-written in a font he detested, if he had written it, it would look far better, and although it has been some hours since he took the pen out from behind his ear, he still has a faint phantom impression of a pen there, pressing against his skull. He would be happier in the park. He could like her more in the park he thought.
He got up from his seat, taking her by surprise. He was leaving, he was leaving and he hadn’t noticed her hat or seen her smile.
He opened the door to the cafe he hated, and left. He was gone, and he hadn’t noticed her hat.
