Orange, Green, Purple
A man is trying repeatedly to stand up. It is hopeless. With every fresh, one-handed attempt - for the other is clutching the sherry for dear life - the dregs of his energy are drained further. He finally collapses wearily but not without relief beside his little puddle of vomit.. All his.
Our man is standing round the corner from him just inside the underground exit. His shoes are polished so that you will never have to enquire into his character. He is the sort who polishes his shoes every day without fail and needs no sandwich board to tell you so. His trousers are carefully pressed (moderately tasteful blue pinstripe) and he appears to be wearing a pair of grey woolen socks. Naturally his jacket and waistcoat are of a matching design. (He’s wearing a suit.) There’s also a collar and tie. He doesn’t have very much hair but what there is is tidily combed over his bald patch in strands. He has a small moustache of which he is rather proud. Occasionally he strokes it. Do you think he could be a bank manager?
She is wearing much less. To start at the bottom and work upwards, she is wearing a pair of ankle-length boots (black) with pointed toes, and fish-net tights, a black leather miniskirt and a black singlet. Her hair is orange, green and purple and she has a ring through her nose. Her face is thick with make-up, especially around the eyes. Some would consider her rather plump. She is rather plump. She has an interesting face but she is not classically beautiful by any means. Her nose is too long (the ring tends to draw attention to this, I should say) and her cheek-bones are too elevated. However, she is not unattractive.
As she walked past, the sudden flash of orange, green and purple caught his attention and as he glanced, automatically, downwards, this was retained. His hands, which had been clasped unobtrusively in front of his private parts, became more animated. The left began absently to tap the right as he studied the legs, ankles upwards, the behind, and, somewhat reluctantly, the back and the back of her head. Suddenly, for no evident reason, she stopped. She stood there for a moment or two, then turned and walked, purposefully, back to him. She came to a halt perhaps a foot from him, and stared. He coughed, twitched a little, coughed again. She continued to stare up into his face (there was a good six inches difference in their heights). He continued to cough, twitch, cough. He coughed, twitched and coughed for two or three minutes (it seemed longer). Her gaze did not falter and was only ever blank. Finally, she raised an eyebrow. He nodded.
(She is in no sense a professional woman and he has been faithful to his wife for thirty-five years.)
They sat on the floor. He had never heard the Sex Pistols before. He had taken his jacket off and was in his waistcoat. She had put a sweater on. Neither had spoken. Silence, despite the Sex Pistols.
The day wore on. They relaxed. They listened to David Bowie, the Rolling Stones and the Beatles. When it was late afternoon she left him to make some tea. She made it with milk.
His tie lay over the sofa, his shoes under it. He had undone the top three buttons of his shirt. His eyes were beginning to feel heavy. She made more tea and put another jumper on. Acker Bilk was playing quietly in the background.
He was feeling strange. The music floated over him and carried him away somewhere but even he was not sure where he was borne away on that breeze of nostalgia. It was a green and pleasant land. It was Jerusalem. He was vaguely aware that he had taken all his clothes off and was bearing his sixty year-old body to another for the first time in many years (his wife and he both undressed in the dark. He always got up before her. They had not seen each other for twenty years). However, the other was not inspecting his body. Her eyes were drawn only to the shoes beneath the sofa. She studied them for several moments before picking up first one, then the other, feeling the soft, polished leather with delicate fingers. She gently removed a lace and ran it through her teeth before replacing it with consummate care. She let her lips feel the texture of the shoes. She kissed both the tongues.
Eventually she removed just enough clothing for them to do what was expected.
‘What’s your name?’ .. the words finally erupted, and she scarcely had time to reply before his passion exploded and fairies danced and planets collided and everything everywhere was orange and green and purple, on and on amid the moans and the groans until she rolled off him and the early evening suns streamed through the window and illumined the sad old sack of blood and guts and the yellowing skin spread tight over it and she felt, for a brief moment, a little affection for the old man before she sighed and covered herself and went to put the other side of the Acker Bilk record on..
It is late evening when he emerges. He seems a little bewildered and there is something different about him. His hair is just as carefully combed across his bald patch. But one of the strands is orange.. And one is green. And one is even purple.
She is sitting behind the copy of the Financial Times that he has left behind, studying the stocks and shares. She is curled up on the sofa and beside her, on a table, is the ring.
What’s your name?
**************
He has given up for the night. He’s slumped in the same doorway. The vomit has dried and the sherry bottle is empty. He’s out for the night.
Page(s) 11-12
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