Are We Nearly There Yet?
Image Credit: @sidfordfilm
Streets with open markets, embellished with traffic lights and zebra crossings, encourage pedestrians to choose that path. A boy standing in the park was entertaining himself with games, next to the family playing songs about Jesus. He threw a ball towards wobbling pins, making eye contact with me first, a look of determination in his distant gaze.
Shoulder to shoulder people stood - social distancing a memory now.
Strolling along my edge of the grass, the vibrance of this city’s inhabitants makes my insides feel orange despite the blue of my lips, and tips of my fingers hidden at the bottom of my pockets.
Climb in With Me
In that hazy space where you open your eyes and you’re trying to figure out what day it is, the seagulls outside seem a little too loud and the warmth of the bed you’re slotted into feels like your only protector. Sinking deeper into the mattress, you know it’s got your back. The duvet tucks itself underneath your waist, an intimate hug that reminds you of somewhere between your mother and lover. The pillow supports your head, the way an elbow would cradle a baby. Outside, bin-men give you a taste of the working day and you remember it's Monday and, shit, you haven’t put the bins out. Do I get up and start my day? The clock tells you you’ve got five more minutes before it sounds its alarm, sending you into a frenzy of guessing the day again and thinking about an appropriate outfit for the events you have squeezed into each hour, and forgetting that last night you said you would treat yourself to pancakes. Light slithers through the gaps in the curtain, teasing you to what could be a blue sky. With a yawn and a stretch, your clock adds more minutes. The cold air of your room grazes your arms while your legs wiggle in the cave of comfort. A tired tear rolls from your eye, landing on your pillow and making it damp. Then you’re awake; not yet ready to start your Monday.
Outside the Coffee Shop
“Two lattes and a croissant please,” someone behind me asked.
I felt their eyes narrowing into the back of my head, conscious of the fact that I had stolen the window seat, although it was a table for four. They had disrupted my daydream of life beyond the barrier of glass. I remained hidden, obscured by their reflection in the window.
They took the table just outside my window.
I loved her leather jacket, and the way her wavy hair was carelessly thrown up into a bun, held together with a scrunchie. Her boyfriend wore beige from head to toe, the look completed with a canvas bag. His croissant conformed to the colour scheme perfectly and he himself was the perfect accessory to the girl’s aesthetic. They laughed together and I couldn’t help laughing too though I obviously didn’t hear the joke. Even if I did, I probably wouldn’t understand it.
A girl with a red fringe walked past, her beret perfectly balanced on her head. I wondered how long she had stood in her bedroom mirror putting the hat on, adjusting her hair, taking the hat off and putting it on again with a sigh of “that’ll do.” I pictured her sliding her hoop earrings into their tiny keyhole slots, weighing down her lobes as they dropped and dangled in her ears.
She hesitated outside, then unplugged the earphones from her ears to chat as she recognised the couple. A heat boiled between my stomach and my chest. I tried to lip read stories of beret girl getting far too drunk on cheap white wine, falling off a bar stool, and that is why she is now pointing at the bruise on her elbow. I wanted to know about the film the couple watched at the drive in cinema and what flavour milkshake they had afterwards. Instead, the window stood between us and I was bubbling like a kettle ready to pour, wishing and silently begging for them to at least see beyond the dirt smudges in the glass.
It was too late. Beret girl was off with a skip and a dance, not even satisfying me with the glimpse of a smirk. Then the couple also disappeared leaving the remains of steamed milk stuck to the edges of their cups, and the final sad crumbs of a croissant. As they faded down the street from my view, I took a sip of my coffee, which had gone cold.
Grass
I took the long way, purposely going through the park. I really wanted to sit on the grass, but it was still wet with dew. I wanted to lay in the field and feel leaves intertwine with my hair, and bugs tickle my arm. Instead, I sat at a bench. A little boy came and sat with me. After he had peeled off his shoes and socks, his little legs carried him down the hill, feeling those shards of damp grass in between his toes as he ran.
Maybe I should have followed him, initiated a game of ‘it’ or ‘stuck in the mud’. He came back up the hill and looked at me with his head tilted to the side.
“What is your name?” he enquired as his eyes scanned my face. I was taken aback by this curious child, so I stuttered when I replied with my name.
“Sophie, what are you doing here?” He asked a good question, I will give him that. I got a blister on the palm of my thumb as I shifted.
“I like to come here sometimes,” I replied, after some thought. “I am taller than the trees up here,” I explained, pointing at the flora on the edges of the path below. The boy sat again, his legs swinging, sprinkles of grass raining from the soles of his feet.
“And who is that?” he said, smudging his finger on the plaque behind the both of us. I assumed he meant the drawing of a dog carved into the silver.
“It is a lady named June’s dog.”
“How do you know?”
“Because it says so right here: ‘June loved to come to this park with her beloved dog’,” I read to my new friend, tracing my fingers underneath each letter.
He furrowed his eyebrows and rubbed his bare feet together. His lips parted, an air of speech trapped in his mouth, paused by his mother raising two junior size thirteen trainers in the air, signaling for her son to catch up.
I took my shoes off as soon as the mother and son were out of view, and wiggled my toes in the grass. A ladybird landed on my knee and I counted six spots. I pressed my index finger and middle finger against my lips before transferring the kiss onto the plaque that read “in memory of June - wife, sister, mum and grandmother.”
I
ran
to
the
bottom
of
the
hill and went home with damp feet.
Image Credit: @sidfordfilm
Being Home
He promised her a house with a balcony.
“I’ll build you a balcony if I have to,” he said.
She promised him she would cook a meal for him every Sunday, or bake instead if they went out for dinner or got a takeaway. She would make him enjoy roasts, ensuring not to make the potatoes too fluffy or not to overcook the veg. Her dad didn’t like pasta when he first met her mum, and now her parents eat pasta every week. She would bake him homemade cinnamon buns with so much cinnamon it would make them both cough. She would master croissants too with determination to get the dough right, even though he warned her how hard it was to prepare from scratch. They would do the food shop together and use a trolley instead of a basket to feel more adult. She wanted the cheap stuff but he believes in treating yourself. We will never have a balcony with these habits, she thought to herself. But then she remembered you need the perfect tomatoes and freshest basil for the most perfect Sunday soup, so off to the farmers market they will go.
He leant over her when it was time to leave, his chin rested on his folded up fist and his lips permanently moulded into a grin. She laid underneath him, feeling comfortable in a position which once made her self-conscious. She couldn’t break her gaze. She knew what her mum meant when she said “I see the way he looks at you.” She took both hands and grabbed the sides of his face before ruffling them through his hair and wrapping her arms around his body for one more squeeze. He didn’t want to leave, but they both remembered the promise of a balcony even though nothing was said aloud. They exchanged this unspoken promise through a harrowing stare, instead of tangling pinky fingers the way children do.
That was enough for her to fall asleep dreaming of prosecco under the stars, looking down on a street with his hand placed on the small of her back. One day they will wake up together every morning, and that made it okay to fall asleep alone.
Going Home
With the sun on his face and a hand on his hip, the smell of barbecued beef soaked into his collared shirt. He said to his daughter, “if you close your eyes, you can just about hear the sea.”