He hadn't even fucking been wanting coffee, his hand trembled as he finished the mug. He felt agitated. He breathed deeply, he wanted to run outside, he wanted to leap into cold water and scream deliriously.
So the coffee was finished. The coffee was finished and now it was time to make a move. That's what ye did, ye finished yer coffee and then you made a move. Don't linger. And don't look at her christ, keep yer eyes on the book on the coffee mug on the edge of the table christ he could see her out the corner of his eye was she looking at him was she
Deep breaths. He felt exceptionally agitated as if might have a panic attack.
Ye paid for your coffee and then ye left, all there was to it. And ask her. Mind and ask her. No christ don't ask her, people will overhear the total humiliation will be unbearable. So ye don't ask anyone anything, ye silently pay for your coffee and then ye make a fucking move and never come back
He was going to ask her, he had to ask her. He hadn't fucking even been wanting coffee but there had to be some pretext, christ, it was amusing if ye thought about it except he felt a bit like crying
Right, no histrionics, ye pay for yer coffee and then make yer move and
She walked past and he was completely aware of her presence, her aura
He had to time this exactly so that she took his money at the till and no one of the guys
Except it felt hard to time it without it seeming contrived, everyone in the cafe was completely aware of what he was doing it was pitiful, it was fucking
Deep breaths. No-one was fucking even paying attention to him, he was invisible, he was just total fucking spectral, man
He took the caramelized biscuit from the saucer and pocketed it. It was in a cellophane wrapper and so could be consumed at a later juncture
He steeled himself and approached the till
Friday 7 May 2010
EVENTS SEEMED TO BE ORDERED INTO AN OMINOUS LOGIC
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.
THE END?
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.
THE END?
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