He lies on his bed and thinks of coffee: bitter, black, slightly cooler than at its best - the way he always drinks it. He thinks how much he’d like one now: a single espresso shot in a tiny cup painted with swirling cumulus clouds. He thinks of steam licking over the rim upon that first sip, imagines the comma of ochre bubbles following the path of a recently departed teaspoon breaking the rich brown surface; thinks of the heat kissing his cupid’s bow as he tips the cloud-covered cup gently towards his lips.
He peels back the covers from his sweating torso and reaches over to the bedside table, clears aside the silver-linked watch and knotted-up iPod wires, valet stickers, a couple of nickels and the book he’s been ‘reading’ for months (a drugstore receipt marking his arrival at page 19). His clammy fingers fold themselves like spiders’ legs around the handle of a chipped white mug with Bugs Bunny on the side – a relic of the previous tenant’s habitation. Lifting the mug unsteadily across the curled damp hair of his bare chest, he gulps down a few mouthfuls of lukewarm water and lands the mug, one-third full, back down again on the table, two bucks’ worth of loose change pirouetting loudly off the edge and then silently swerving across the carpet.
He looks up at the heap of unpacked white archive boxes leaning against the bedroom wall, a chink of light slicing two of them in half where the Sunday sun cuts through the curtains. He blows his nose loudly, plumps the pillows, lies back down again with his hands behind his head. He thinks.
He thinks of words like banana, chocolate, tomato and mascarpone. He hears them jar in his head; familiar words in unfamiliar tones; a voice that rings like a bell.
Is she awake? What time is it there? Is she naked?
***
The girl on the counter looks bored. As he lays his groceries on the conveyer belt, she masticates with an infectious sense of tedium, pulls her gum out in a skinny, orange strand with a dirty forefinger, painted nail bitten down to the quick, then winds it round her knuckle like a spring and pulls it back into her gaping mouth with slightly yellowing teeth. She packs his grocery bag without remark and without announcing the total, holds her hand outstretched expectantly. He looks at the till and gives her twenty bucks, watches her slowly count the change into his hand, where it slides over the surface of the receipt.
He lifts the two bags from the metal counter and thinks about saying goodbye to the cashier but she is already scanning a bag of frozen sweet corn belonging to the next lady.
Two boys climb on the plastic chairs, using the stamp machines on the back wall above their heads as leverage, puffing and panting with their exertion. He swerves past them, past the green baize notice-boards advertising Fox terrier pups for sale, workout classes at the local pool and adult computer classes; past the patchwork of the cigarette counter; past the bags of slow-burn charcoal, and disposable BBQs, and limp-looking aspidistras, and outside. The sun glares white off the bonnets of Mercuries, Lincolns and white utility trucks. With a single outstretched finger, trembling under the weight of the grocery bag, he slides down his shades and heads for the car.
Is she awake? Is she thinking about him? Is she naked?
***
He arranges himself on the sofa, a beat-up, chocolate-brown corduroy affair with tan-coloured scars where a previous tenant’s cat used it as a scratching-post. He finds the remote between the arm and the seat cushion and switches on the music centre. He station-hops for a few seconds, catches a few snippets of jazz before pressing the CD button. He unfastens his zipper, catching a thumbnail. He bites the snagged edge smooth again and pulls out his flaccid cock. He looks at it for a few moments – makes it twitch against the black denim.
He thinks of chocolate and bananas and mascarpone and the way she laughs at her own jokes. That tinkling laugh: like beautiful bells inside his head. He thinks of the things she says down crackling phone lines, and as Robert Plant starts telling him about his share of good times bad times, he beats himself off in 4/4. His wrist aches with the extra effort of keeping the snagged nail away from the skin. Is she awake?
He flushes the john and watches pieces of spent tissue rising back up from the u-bend. He tries the flush again but the tank is still filling up and it makes a hollow sound. He sits on the bath side, feeling the dampness of his morning towel soak up into the back of his jeans, and waits for the gurgling to stop. He flushes again and washes his hands without checking his reflection in the glass, makes a token gesture at drying the suds off and unlocks the door.
He imagines her in this bathroom – a place she has never been to. He imagines her pale skin, shiny with bath water as she climbs onto the wet floorboards, towel wrapped around her, hair in thick brown strands dripping water between sun-kissed shoulder blades, the dampness against his hands as he takes her delicate chin in his huge palms to kiss her. Is she thinking about him?
He eats: a huge pizza with anchovies and extra chili peppers. He suspects the chillies may have been a bad idea. He channel-hops until a Sergio Leone film fills the screen – the highpoint of his evening. He gulps from his stubby beer bottle and opens his mouth on one side to belch quietly, bites into the pizza and watches the story of two rival gangs and the maverick outsider who crawls with bloodied face and broken limbs into a coffin to hide, two dead soldiers propped comically against a headstone.
He imagines her here, spooning coleslaw into his mouth with faux-lust, her eyes crinkling as cola bubbles pop in her nose, her shiny calves against his lap and her soft hair rustling against his tank top. Is she naked?
***
The bus is already packed and it’s raining. Cursing as she realises she’s left her umbrella in the kitchen sink. A city boy queue-jumps and barges onto the stairs to the upper deck, the disgruntled clicks of the other passengers drowned out with the noise of toucan crossings and an HGV.
Her feet, sodden in ballet pumps and with the black dye bleeding into her pop socks, aquaplane on the saturated lower deck of the bus and her Oyster card bleeps away her beer money. She heads up the stairwell as the bus heads off into the traffic, puddles hissing under its heavy tyres and the windscreen wipers squealing against the glass.
There are no seats so she holds the metal banister – still warm from the last passenger - and rearranges her handbag away from two gossiping teenagers with no sense of personal space. She takes the hair slide from her sodden hair and grips it in her teeth, wrings the rainwater from her fringe and clips it back in again. She takes a powder case from her bag and opens it to use the mirror, moves the hairgrip and wipes a smudge of bleeding liquid liner from beneath her left eye. Wiping the mirror with the wet cuff of her Macintosh, she clips it shut and puts it away again.
The rain winds its way down the windows like thousands of zig-zagging silverfish, and a see-sawing pool of rainwater spills into the bottom left-hand corner and back in the window over the stairwell. She thinks of chocolate and bananas and mascarpone, familiar words that jar in unfamiliar tones. She thinks of a beautiful voice on the end of crackling phone lines and of how it reminds her of getting into a warm bubble-bath. She imagines the weather there, hot and without rain. She thinks of shiny Mercuries and the glaring white bonnets of utility trucks and shopping packed into brown paper bags by smiling cashiers with perfect smiles.
Is he awake? Is he thinking about her? Is he naked?
He peels back the covers from his sweating torso and reaches over to the bedside table, clears aside the silver-linked watch and knotted-up iPod wires, valet stickers, a couple of nickels and the book he’s been ‘reading’ for months (a drugstore receipt marking his arrival at page 19). His clammy fingers fold themselves like spiders’ legs around the handle of a chipped white mug with Bugs Bunny on the side – a relic of the previous tenant’s habitation. Lifting the mug unsteadily across the curled damp hair of his bare chest, he gulps down a few mouthfuls of lukewarm water and lands the mug, one-third full, back down again on the table, two bucks’ worth of loose change pirouetting loudly off the edge and then silently swerving across the carpet.
He looks up at the heap of unpacked white archive boxes leaning against the bedroom wall, a chink of light slicing two of them in half where the Sunday sun cuts through the curtains. He blows his nose loudly, plumps the pillows, lies back down again with his hands behind his head. He thinks.
He thinks of words like banana, chocolate, tomato and mascarpone. He hears them jar in his head; familiar words in unfamiliar tones; a voice that rings like a bell.
Is she awake? What time is it there? Is she naked?
***
The girl on the counter looks bored. As he lays his groceries on the conveyer belt, she masticates with an infectious sense of tedium, pulls her gum out in a skinny, orange strand with a dirty forefinger, painted nail bitten down to the quick, then winds it round her knuckle like a spring and pulls it back into her gaping mouth with slightly yellowing teeth. She packs his grocery bag without remark and without announcing the total, holds her hand outstretched expectantly. He looks at the till and gives her twenty bucks, watches her slowly count the change into his hand, where it slides over the surface of the receipt.
He lifts the two bags from the metal counter and thinks about saying goodbye to the cashier but she is already scanning a bag of frozen sweet corn belonging to the next lady.
Two boys climb on the plastic chairs, using the stamp machines on the back wall above their heads as leverage, puffing and panting with their exertion. He swerves past them, past the green baize notice-boards advertising Fox terrier pups for sale, workout classes at the local pool and adult computer classes; past the patchwork of the cigarette counter; past the bags of slow-burn charcoal, and disposable BBQs, and limp-looking aspidistras, and outside. The sun glares white off the bonnets of Mercuries, Lincolns and white utility trucks. With a single outstretched finger, trembling under the weight of the grocery bag, he slides down his shades and heads for the car.
Is she awake? Is she thinking about him? Is she naked?
***
He arranges himself on the sofa, a beat-up, chocolate-brown corduroy affair with tan-coloured scars where a previous tenant’s cat used it as a scratching-post. He finds the remote between the arm and the seat cushion and switches on the music centre. He station-hops for a few seconds, catches a few snippets of jazz before pressing the CD button. He unfastens his zipper, catching a thumbnail. He bites the snagged edge smooth again and pulls out his flaccid cock. He looks at it for a few moments – makes it twitch against the black denim.
He thinks of chocolate and bananas and mascarpone and the way she laughs at her own jokes. That tinkling laugh: like beautiful bells inside his head. He thinks of the things she says down crackling phone lines, and as Robert Plant starts telling him about his share of good times bad times, he beats himself off in 4/4. His wrist aches with the extra effort of keeping the snagged nail away from the skin. Is she awake?
He flushes the john and watches pieces of spent tissue rising back up from the u-bend. He tries the flush again but the tank is still filling up and it makes a hollow sound. He sits on the bath side, feeling the dampness of his morning towel soak up into the back of his jeans, and waits for the gurgling to stop. He flushes again and washes his hands without checking his reflection in the glass, makes a token gesture at drying the suds off and unlocks the door.
He imagines her in this bathroom – a place she has never been to. He imagines her pale skin, shiny with bath water as she climbs onto the wet floorboards, towel wrapped around her, hair in thick brown strands dripping water between sun-kissed shoulder blades, the dampness against his hands as he takes her delicate chin in his huge palms to kiss her. Is she thinking about him?
He eats: a huge pizza with anchovies and extra chili peppers. He suspects the chillies may have been a bad idea. He channel-hops until a Sergio Leone film fills the screen – the highpoint of his evening. He gulps from his stubby beer bottle and opens his mouth on one side to belch quietly, bites into the pizza and watches the story of two rival gangs and the maverick outsider who crawls with bloodied face and broken limbs into a coffin to hide, two dead soldiers propped comically against a headstone.
He imagines her here, spooning coleslaw into his mouth with faux-lust, her eyes crinkling as cola bubbles pop in her nose, her shiny calves against his lap and her soft hair rustling against his tank top. Is she naked?
***
The bus is already packed and it’s raining. Cursing as she realises she’s left her umbrella in the kitchen sink. A city boy queue-jumps and barges onto the stairs to the upper deck, the disgruntled clicks of the other passengers drowned out with the noise of toucan crossings and an HGV.
Her feet, sodden in ballet pumps and with the black dye bleeding into her pop socks, aquaplane on the saturated lower deck of the bus and her Oyster card bleeps away her beer money. She heads up the stairwell as the bus heads off into the traffic, puddles hissing under its heavy tyres and the windscreen wipers squealing against the glass.
There are no seats so she holds the metal banister – still warm from the last passenger - and rearranges her handbag away from two gossiping teenagers with no sense of personal space. She takes the hair slide from her sodden hair and grips it in her teeth, wrings the rainwater from her fringe and clips it back in again. She takes a powder case from her bag and opens it to use the mirror, moves the hairgrip and wipes a smudge of bleeding liquid liner from beneath her left eye. Wiping the mirror with the wet cuff of her Macintosh, she clips it shut and puts it away again.
The rain winds its way down the windows like thousands of zig-zagging silverfish, and a see-sawing pool of rainwater spills into the bottom left-hand corner and back in the window over the stairwell. She thinks of chocolate and bananas and mascarpone, familiar words that jar in unfamiliar tones. She thinks of a beautiful voice on the end of crackling phone lines and of how it reminds her of getting into a warm bubble-bath. She imagines the weather there, hot and without rain. She thinks of shiny Mercuries and the glaring white bonnets of utility trucks and shopping packed into brown paper bags by smiling cashiers with perfect smiles.
Is he awake? Is he thinking about her? Is he naked?
About the Author
