remote cards

Writer’s night. Though only a couple of us have turned up on this Thursday night, in this coffee house. We grab a table upstairs. Right at the top of the stairs, there are two guys in low slung chairs, which I guess look comfy. They are sprawled, arms reaching across the table to each other, holding hands.

The table we take is the only one which is big enough for four people, half way along the floor. At this end there are two other tables with people at them. Facing me, there is a table with two girls - one in a burgundy top, blonde hair, smart black trousers that are a little too tight when she stands. She has a soft face, makes her look like she is the younger of the two, though chances are they are of a similar age. The other girl, has a harder face, a more pronounced nose, darker hair, and is readily the more attractive of the two. She is wearing a taut white blouse, that strains against heavier breasts, even though its mostly unbuttoned, showing the black of the long sleeve top beneath. They’ve been here awhile, they’ve finished the tea and the cake that they bought, with Burgundy being a fidget, playing with the remains, when she isn’t playing with her phone. Black seems less interested, less engaged in the conversation, running her hand through her hair, pulling her cuffs over her fists, propping her chin on her hand.

In the corner, by the window, a man sits by himself. Hands propping up his head. He seems lost in thought, glancing out the window, staring into space. He has that “just out of work” look, jumper, with collar, shaven head. In front of him there is a large cup of coffee, looks like its mostly full, and a plate with an untouched slice of cake. Thoughts so deep that cake goes untouched, what thoughts! After a while, he pulls out a note pad, starts to write with determination. Tears the sheet off, leaves it sitting on table in front of him, it sits there for a while. Then he picks it up, hands beneath the table, he screws it into a ball, then you can hear the paper tearing.

Black says how she never goes dancing. Burgundy says they should, that perhaps they should take a class. Burgundy’s phone rings and she arranges to meet someone, at the Arches, beneath the station. She sits back and rubs her belly absently, conversation idle. Burgundy shows photos on her phone, then a badly recorded clip from some gig, where the sound distorts horribly. Black goes to the toilet. Then Burgundy takes her turn. They are winding up, looks like. But Burgundy stands, takes Black’s hand in hers, kisses her cheek, and leaves alone. Black watches her leave, watches her disappear into the street and round the corner.

Suddenly he takes a bite of the cake, after we’ve been here an hour. He is oblivious to everyone else, sitting in his corner, thinking. He doesn’t notice the girls, doesn’t notice Burgundy leave. Doesn’t notice when Black pulls out a notepad and pen. Her pad has a pink plastic, flowery cover, spiral bound side, pocket pad. Her pen has multiple colours, and she writes distractedly. He gets his pad out again, coincidentally, one of those reporter type pads, floppy, with spiral bound top. He just uses a black pen, and writes intently. He rips the page off, places it on the table, plonks the sugar shaker on top of it. She puts her note book away, pulls out a brochure, for some pharmaceutical company, flicks through it. He swigs the remains of his coffee, which must be at least two hours old. He places his car keys on the table, pulls his jacket on, with determination he doesn’t leave, he reaches for the paper, rest his hand on it, then forces himself. He stands, and exits.

She sees the empty table in the corner, with the window, and grabs her stuff and moves. She has the brochure ready to read, when she spots the sheet of paper. She starts to read the little she can see, then stops, bowing her head to read her stuff. Then she can’t resist, she picks up the sugar and reads the page, flips it over to read the other side. Holds it there, taking it in, absorbing it. Places it back down, puts the sugar back on top. She removes an application form from the brochure, folded in half, reads through it. She sits with her pen poised as though she is going to start filling it in, but decides to re-read it, make sure she has grasped the subtleties of the questions. Then she folds it, clearly bored, and unconvinced by the prospect. She shoves the brochure back in her bag, pulls on her jacket, and leaves.

Now that both tables are clear, I tell A about what they have been doing. And we both look at the sheet of paper sitting there. And we both look at each other. And we both look at the sheet of paper sitting there. He breaks first, gets up and wanders over to the table. Takes a quick look at the page, but doesn’t read it all. He comes back, it’s a love letter he says. The guy has written a love letter and left it on the table. Is it for one of the members of staff? That might make sense. Moments later, a couple come up the stairs. They spot the table in the corner, by the window, and she charges for it, her high heels clopping as she goes. Look, someone left a letter she declares instantly, and sits down to read it, how random is that she says on finishing. A pause, then, I’m going to hand this in, she gets back up, and clumps back down the stairs to hand the letter to the staff. We last a little longer in our writing, but leave soon after that. As we exit the building I glance back, and see that love letter to the wild, lying behind the counter, in captivity, perhaps gone unnoticed?

Labels: cafe, cake, love letter, man, tea, wild, woman, writing