Angel

An exercise in brevity, inspired by Dan Rhodes’ Anthropology and a story about Jason Orange in last night’s Metro.

He’d known it as soon as he saw her. Long, dark hair, piercing green eyes, and a heartbreaking smile, along with one of the dirtiest laughs he’d ever heard. She was his perfect woman.

Now she was pressed close to him, and every other man there was casting jealous glances and muttering, “How the hell did he manage that?” “Lucky bastard.” He smiled the smug smile of a man who knows his guardian angel is working hard and turned to whisper to the beautiful girl laughing next to him.

The tube doors opened and she was gone. He’d missed his chance.

People-watching

She is adenoidal, snuffling like a pug, lumpen with grey skin and violet shadows beneath her eyes. She struggles with technology, unable to work her pretty pink camera, swearing softly under her breath as she fails to get to grips with the unfamiliar buttons.

* * * * *

Swaggering stiff-legged, overtly pursed lips drawing hard on her menthol superking, she is a middle-aged maneater in mediocre sweat-pants.

* * * * *

The schoolgirls sit at the back of the bus, singing in harmony, casting contemptuously hopeful glances at the man in the expensive jeans and trendy haircut, who could just be the record-exec that will give them their big break, spiriting them out of Willesden and into the West End.

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes

Last night was spent in the company of one of the girls that I used to share a house with, back in our student days.  We decided to check out the pub where we used to work, which has just been revamped and tarted up, in line with the rest of Kilburn.  We came out somewhat unnerved.  It’s not right, I tell you!  Dark-stained wooden floors, leather banquettes and chandeliers abound, along with surly, painfully trendy bar staff.  In the old days it was very Irish and rowdy.  I can’t imagine a fight breaking out in there now, which is a good thing, but there’s a part of me that hankers for the beer-stained carpet, karaoke, and regulars that used to beat the door down at opening time, rather than the cool young professionals that sit there now, sipping their mojitos and playing pool.

We decided to leave after one drink and head over to another of our old haunts, The Little Bay.  This is a fabulous little restaurant that we’ve been going to for years, as the food is great and if you get in there early doors then you can get a 3-course meal for just under a tenner.  Perfect.  Even after we’d bought wine, water and coffees, we still didn’t manage to break 20 quid each – that’s my kind of night out.

Last night’s visit was a bit like entering a parallel universe, though.  I’d been in there the night before with another friend (Maisy, for those old-school 20sixers who remember her) and the head waiter had recognised me that night.  When I then went in again last night he greeted me like an old friend and, as the evening wore on, began to call me ‘my sweetheart’ and suggest that we move in together and get married.

In our mature and adult fashion, Alex and I ran away, giggling.  Some things, it would seem, never change.

Stormclouds and Secrets

A mini-story for you today, at the instigation of Cigs .

We mostly talked about the weather. All other subjects seemed off-limits, somehow. Strange, when we’d been so intimate. I guess that’s what a broken heart does to you. So much to say but no way of saying it.

So we sat and discussed the grey stormclouds gathering above us, like perfect strangers. I zoned out after a few minutes, watching his mouth move; that mouth that had once whispered sweet nothings to me. And suddenly I realised that he wasn’t talking about the weather at all.