Friday, 7 May 2010


He woke up and his lips was sticky and smelling of medicine so he washed them. He was already dressed so got out of bed and went outside.
He went to the cafe.

"Ye wantin' a cup of coffee, aye?" the wifey shouted/
"Aye," he answered morosely. He had fucking been hoping the younger lassie would be working the day, the one he had taken a fancy to. The luscious wee thing.

The cafe was a regular haunt for Ali. He worked nightshift at a petrol station on the outskirts of the city. At the end of his shift he would go home and sleep for a few hours then catch a bus into town to go for a coffee, hoping the lassie would be there.

He was trying to write a novel but he was too sleepy, too easily distracted, too easily demotivated.
He sat reading a novel in the cafe, glancing up whenever the lassie walked past. He hadnae spoke to her yet.

All the afternoon hours absorbed in melancholic lethargy. All the senseless pining for the infinitely unattainable.

"Is it a cup of coffee yer huvin', aye?"
"Aye..." he barely whispered.

The lassie wasnae Scottish. He didn't know where she was from.

He took long walks around the city, timidly skirting the cafe, working up the nerve to visit for another solitary cup of coffee.

He liked the routine of the petrol station nightshift. The quiet consensus of banality. The sleep deprived serenity.

The hateful grinding noise of the coffee machine when she wasn't there. He wasn't even fucking wanting coffee but he had to order something. Couldn't walk in and then just walk out again once he'd clocked she wasn't there. Couldn't arouse suspicion like that.

When he walked to the coffee shop he would try and notice as many beautiful women on the street as he could. These women are more beautiful than the waitress he would tell himself. He was insulating himself against what he felt was the inevitable excruciating rejection.

He came to find out her name.

Where had she gone? He was getting worried. Three visits in a row and hadnae spied her. Mind you it wasn't on consecutive days.

He came to find out her fucking name.

Where did all they gorgeous creatures go? What doors did they pass thru? What turbulence or serenity?

As he walked he fingered the accumulation of caramelized biscuits in his pocket. They came in wee cellophane packets.

He lay in bed tensing and untensing his calf muscles. He felt exhausted yet was unable to sleep.

Morosion. Was that a word? An explosion of morosion. No, an implosion of morosion is more accurate. A slow motion, sinking feeling of horror.

"Is it a cup of coffee yer wantin', aye?" the wifey shrieked.
"Aye," he whispered through clenched teeth, tears welling in his eyes.
Another cup of coffee, another cellophane wrapped caramelized biscuit to add to the collection.
Keep the caffeine levels topped up, keep the sugar levels topped up. Keep himself feeling nervy, keep the mood swings erratic.

People sometimes looked at him and he thought what are they thinking now?

One day he went to the cafe and she was there and he came to find out she was Lithuanian. He decided he would ask her out. He fingered the accumulation of caramelized biscuits in his pocket. If she said no he would stuff them all into his mouth and hopefully choke to death.


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