remote cards

In the basement of this bookshop there is a branch of one of the chain coffee shops. One of those places I often wander to on a Sunday afternoon after a browse. Its quite late on this time, hitting closing, I’ve cancelled what I planned to do due to a headache – decided to grab a coffee before just heading home, maybe relax a little, read a little, see if the headache will go away before driving. It’s the same three members of staff that are usually on at this time. The blonde girl, with short hair, usually clasps, a huge chunk of hair gone dark – a style or neglect? The girl with the Gaelic name that looks unpronounceable, with the dark hair in a pony tail, always giggling as she is mocked by the others. The guy, with short dark hair, burly, bit of a spiked style, always probing the girls with his questions. Today the blonde takes orders, the guy makes orders, the Gael is on cleaning tables – last time the girls were the other way round. He says something, blonde says – no, I’m a pescatarian. A what? It means I eat fish. He gets scornful, tries to come up for what it would mean if someone only ate chicken. She isn’t impressed. As I approach the counter I scan the shop, spot the staff, the customers. There is a girl near the counter, fuzzy hair, tied back. She has a pad on the table in front of her, scans me as I scan her – and I wonder, is she writing me as I will writer her? How curious. She packs her bag as I take a seat, meticulous in the way she does so, only so much space, and so many things. Behind me a group, a family across two tables, who just seem to be sprawled, killing time, only fragments of conversation carry. Two teenage boys, one with a “fantasy art book” he is paging through – why is it all photoshopped instead of drawn – he complains loudly. Turns out the coffee shop closes earlier than the book shop, so rather than spend an hour relaxing, I feel more hurried. People are turned away - we're closed. Book staff member comes round with a guy, has whatever he has lost been handed in - nope. So I drink up and leave, hitting the super market for headache pills on my way home.

Labels: book, boy, coffee, fish, girl, glasgow, pescatarian, photoshop

Outside. He staggers along the street. With that unsteady, likely to fall over in a moment style of the terribly drink, drugged or homeless. She is in better condition, just about, grim, blonde hair, tugged back beneath a white base ball cap, denim blue jacket over pink blouse top. She takes the back of his neck in one hand - pins him - holds him still, takes him in a strangle hold with her other hand, full of threat. Talks to him firmly, fiercely. Free again he rests his head and elbows on a street bin, that comes up to mid-chest level. She wanders off, before coming back to drag him after, reluctant and so hard done by. They come back, later, going the other direction, her carrying a bag of chips, folded white paper, unwrapped like a junk food flower, him staggering still. He turns and takes a handful of chips, leaning, forward and precarious. In brute fashion, she wipes her grease thick fingers on his cheeks. They get to the crossroad corner. He sinks on to a stone bench, asks a passer by for money. She drapes herself over his shoulder, kisses him like that. Minutes pass before the wander off, and out of sight again. Later, when I leave, I turn that same corner. To find them in an alleyway, whispering nothing sweet to each other.

Labels: chips, drunk, fish, glasgow, homeless, nothing, sweet