She fights a bitter wind and her hair whips about her face in defiance of the twist she wrought into it before leaving home. She hulks into her coat, long and red with deep pockets that have warmed her hands many times before now. Her boots carry her swift through the dark to the bar, a frail beacon of warmth in the tradition of the inns of the old days. She stretches her icy fingers out to the iron handle and pulls on the heavy wooden door, and as it opens her face is met with a flush of warm air, conversation and music.
She makes a pass at the menu but in the end it’s her usual tonight, a glass of wine and the pork buns, steamed and served with hot chilli sauce. Her hands are cold in spite of the pockets and in spite of her gloves and they trip across the keyboard.
Nearby are two youngsters. Both are frail and with faces delicately hewn, the sort of people who make her feel elephantine in her size, her strength. She looks on them and becomes aware simultaneously of her strength and roundness, but also of her frailty as any human being. One day these very words, wrought as they are of mere ether and pixels, will exist where she does not. But these children beside her, they nevertheless make her feel larger and more permanent than they. It could be a date, but they seem too at ease in each other’s company. If there is flirting going on, they are not skilled in the art. They talk of light things…
“I’ll take one of those bottles of red over – one of the ones from my birthday last year”
“Good idea” she tells him, gravely, as though it is a matter of some importance.
Perhaps this is not a date but two lovers. They talk as though they neither care to attract nor interest each other; their conversation is small and focused on things of no consequence.
“The going away is tomorrow?”
“Yes” she says, mustering enthusiasm all of a sudden. “There’s no pressure for you to come, you can see your mum instead, just pop in and say hi then go.”
Lovers, then, and a relationship relatively new. She is still pretending that it’s ok if he doesn’t show up with her, and he is still pretending that he doesn’t want to send her on her own. Or perhaps this is a relationship old and solid and stable, and this cynicism is our narrator’s own. They are, after all, young, and the girl is let to learn how many miles he will take from her proffered inch while he is yet to learn that an inch of rope is sufficient to tie a noose.
Funny, isn’t it, how tiny and how young people only a few years younger than oneself can seem. The girl has said she is twenty-three, and he looks to be of similar age. They are only ten years younger than the red coated woman who watches and draws her comparisons, but oh, those ten years are long ones. So many heartaches ahead of them, and one doesn't envy them for a minute.
Their talk turns to his brother, whose girlfriend is “fucked”. His mother had given him a dressing down, told him the truth about this girl. Oh, if only we could save the mistakes of our children then there might be time for humanity to learn something new. She isn’t eating her last pork bun. She’s tiny, tiny! So no wonder there is no room for it. Meanwhile your faithful narrator eyes off the boy’s small burger (no euphemism there).
In spite of their proximity, there is nothing more to hold our interest. Our gaze wanders about the room in search of some new thing. There are couples, mostly, huddled cosily in the booths. As always, there’s a table of louder talking, laughter and vivacity. Mostly though it’s the couples who dominate, even down to two happy handbags nestled together on a table awaiting the return of their owners.
These were supposed to be narratives, but in spite of a great and faithful love of other people’s fantasy, I am learning that narratives of my own do not hold my interest for long. Every story seems written already, and while everything must surely have also been already observed, somehow this recording drives me further. Is it an expression of living in the moment, perhaps?
At 8pm the bar fills quickly and the mood becomes lighter. The dark and happy gloom that brought us here is retreating to the corners and looking longingly at the dark shadows outside. The conversation of those finely-eyebrowed fiends beside us becomes irritatingly vapid. There is talk now of sugary drinks and things being “exciting” and hands clap as she performs in the way of silly girls. In the way of silly boys he does not play along, and a tiny stab hits your narrator in the heart at remembered slights of long ago.
The thing that makes this bar great is that there’s always a heavy blues track on the way. It lightens the heart, infuses some energy, and with fingers no longer icy we leave off writing and turn for home.
Other artforms await.
She makes a pass at the menu but in the end it’s her usual tonight, a glass of wine and the pork buns, steamed and served with hot chilli sauce. Her hands are cold in spite of the pockets and in spite of her gloves and they trip across the keyboard.
Nearby are two youngsters. Both are frail and with faces delicately hewn, the sort of people who make her feel elephantine in her size, her strength. She looks on them and becomes aware simultaneously of her strength and roundness, but also of her frailty as any human being. One day these very words, wrought as they are of mere ether and pixels, will exist where she does not. But these children beside her, they nevertheless make her feel larger and more permanent than they. It could be a date, but they seem too at ease in each other’s company. If there is flirting going on, they are not skilled in the art. They talk of light things…
“I’ll take one of those bottles of red over – one of the ones from my birthday last year”
“Good idea” she tells him, gravely, as though it is a matter of some importance.
Perhaps this is not a date but two lovers. They talk as though they neither care to attract nor interest each other; their conversation is small and focused on things of no consequence.
“The going away is tomorrow?”
“Yes” she says, mustering enthusiasm all of a sudden. “There’s no pressure for you to come, you can see your mum instead, just pop in and say hi then go.”
Lovers, then, and a relationship relatively new. She is still pretending that it’s ok if he doesn’t show up with her, and he is still pretending that he doesn’t want to send her on her own. Or perhaps this is a relationship old and solid and stable, and this cynicism is our narrator’s own. They are, after all, young, and the girl is let to learn how many miles he will take from her proffered inch while he is yet to learn that an inch of rope is sufficient to tie a noose.
Funny, isn’t it, how tiny and how young people only a few years younger than oneself can seem. The girl has said she is twenty-three, and he looks to be of similar age. They are only ten years younger than the red coated woman who watches and draws her comparisons, but oh, those ten years are long ones. So many heartaches ahead of them, and one doesn't envy them for a minute.
Their talk turns to his brother, whose girlfriend is “fucked”. His mother had given him a dressing down, told him the truth about this girl. Oh, if only we could save the mistakes of our children then there might be time for humanity to learn something new. She isn’t eating her last pork bun. She’s tiny, tiny! So no wonder there is no room for it. Meanwhile your faithful narrator eyes off the boy’s small burger (no euphemism there).
In spite of their proximity, there is nothing more to hold our interest. Our gaze wanders about the room in search of some new thing. There are couples, mostly, huddled cosily in the booths. As always, there’s a table of louder talking, laughter and vivacity. Mostly though it’s the couples who dominate, even down to two happy handbags nestled together on a table awaiting the return of their owners.
These were supposed to be narratives, but in spite of a great and faithful love of other people’s fantasy, I am learning that narratives of my own do not hold my interest for long. Every story seems written already, and while everything must surely have also been already observed, somehow this recording drives me further. Is it an expression of living in the moment, perhaps?
At 8pm the bar fills quickly and the mood becomes lighter. The dark and happy gloom that brought us here is retreating to the corners and looking longingly at the dark shadows outside. The conversation of those finely-eyebrowed fiends beside us becomes irritatingly vapid. There is talk now of sugary drinks and things being “exciting” and hands clap as she performs in the way of silly girls. In the way of silly boys he does not play along, and a tiny stab hits your narrator in the heart at remembered slights of long ago.
The thing that makes this bar great is that there’s always a heavy blues track on the way. It lightens the heart, infuses some energy, and with fingers no longer icy we leave off writing and turn for home.
Other artforms await.
