An Old Acquaintance
What can I tell you? If I was walking along the street and saw you up ahead, entering the same take-away I had in mind, I’d turn the corner or bend to fasten a shoelace - whether loose or not - hoping you wouldn’t catch my face.
What can I tell you? There’d just be another of those embarrassing silences we suffer everytime an exchange is made and the flame blows out. It’s like that now. I felt perfectly fine within myself, having just ventured out for a sandwich and a Belgian bun. I could easily have prepared a half-decent meal at home - but the desire to stretch a little was just too great. So here I am, chilly out on the street. Saturday afternoon and it’s just happened. I mean, there you were, entering the very same door I was headed for. So now what? I’ve slipped between the market stalls of bright t-shirts and cheap lycra pants, jackets and sports socks; and I’m a little annoyed about having to make a diversion. Not your fault, don’t get me wrong. I’m cursing ‘cause I cannot muster up the courage to make conversation. Anyone would think it was the black sheep of the family I'm avoiding but no - an old acquaintance fills me with more fear than bad blood. And what is there to fear? Nothing really, I know. It’s simply the inconvenience of the situation. Having to come up with such a long string of pleasantries - and look sincere at the same time. It’s just too much hard work. Today is my day off. I wanted to wander these streets alone. I wanted to be anonymous in a sea of faces. I wanted to drift unhindered. Now, I have to keep an eye peeled for someone else lurking in a doorway; someone else sitting on a bench drinking Coca cola or Lucozade; someone else waiting to collar a young man who wishes to remain off camera. Of course, I could just say Hi, doing okay, sorry must dash, I’ve a bus to catch. But that would be a lie. And I’m a pathetic liar at the best of times. Today would be disastrous, believe me.
What can I tell you? That two hours from now I’ll be flat on my back in a cool upstairs room with a book in my hands and a smile spreading across this gaunt face? That six hours from now I'll be stood before the bathroom mirror applying cream to a coldsore? A coldsore, for Christ’s sake, in the middle of June - caught off-guard with a dose of the old flu. Summers are the worst, apparently. First flu I’ve ever had this time of year, I can tell you that much. But otherwise, it’s pointless. I’m here, in the moment, for the moment. You’re there, in the moment. What is there to talk about? I’m like the old man who once told me he erases the previous day of his life each morning before breakfast. He hasn’t been seen for a couple of years now. About the same length of time since you and I last chewed the fat. It was easy then, I was a completely different person. Funny how life goes.
What can I tell you? That this time tomorrow my hands will be blackened with oil and these clothes ruined? That a girl will say hello while her friends remain quietly curious? That I’ll politely respond, take a sip of coffee and get back to cleaning my mountainbike? That a man across the street will break Sunday’s peace hammering six-feet lengths of wood into place?
What can I tell you? What you see is what you get: a young man moving along a street of shoppers, eyes peeled as he darts in and out of the fleshy traffic, a mild hunger his only motivation for putting one foot in front of the other.
Page(s) 22-23
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