remote cards

We are in the Black Medicine café place. C is waiting at the counter for our teas and coffees, when the stubble haired guy leans forward and starts talking to him. He is dressed in black, a thick black jumper, black jeans, black boots, chunky esoteric metal chains round his neck. His hair is shaven short, maybe a 2 gauge? He wears glasses with yellow frames. There is something feral in the way he speaks to C, I watch to see how the conversation develops. Nothing seems to come of it, and after the guy has left we discuss how he was just asking about C’s phone, but there was something edgey about his manner. As we had noticed for the rest of his stay. The furniture is made of stray pieces of wood, giving it all a rugged feel. We sit at a table, the girls G and L on one side, C and I on the other. He sits behind the girls; a shelf built into the back of their bench, his mug sitting there, while he is propped on a stool. A guy with a window seat brushes by on his way to the counter. From here the conversation is fragmentary, but the gist is that they he is growling in challenge – what the hell do you want? The other guy looks surprised, I’m just passing, if I brushed you I meant no harm. He looks barely satisfied with this response. Having ordered he tries to return to his seat, the growler looks at him in challenge. Then he stands up, faces off with the guy as though he is going to start something, then grudgingly steps aside. Another customer arrives, spots something on the growler’s shelf, engages him in conversation. Can I take that? You can try, but I’m finishing my coffee here. He reaches across the growler who is not cooperating, who is obstructing. The guy is easy natured, something of a chancer, he fails, then shrugs and turns back to the counter. The growler leans precariously, waving his arms with voluble gestures, his mouth snarling silent swear words and threats. We drink our teas and coffees, we catch up, we are all conscious of his seething presence, as he glares around looking for his next victim, before finally leaving after receiving a phone call.

Labels: cafe, coffee, edinburgh, growler, hostile, tea

Its one of those early spring days, 4-6 pm, people coming out of work, school, college. The streets are a buzz with people, all kinds of people, all layers of clothes from t-shirt to jacket, levels of intentions. There are too many stories going on, everywhere I look, to keep up with. The school girl, dark hair, Asian face, blue tartan skirt, smiling as she reads texts from her friends. The security guard outside the coffee shop, white shirt black tie, talking on his phone, tells the person to repeat themselves, before telling them to turn the radio down because he can’t hear them over it. The two Chinese mothers with prams, the heavily, heavily pregnant one stopped to adjust her jacket in the spring warmth, while her daughter reaches out and bats it with her hands. There is a group of kids, doing street dancing. Warming up on the way down, with a large crowd on the way back up, and neither time do I catch them doing anything particularly. There is a blue haired guy, sitting outside the underground waiting for someone. A pink haired girl in the comic shop, not laughing at her colleagues lame jokes, watching the clock for when its her turn to go home. Over dosed on stories I stop to eat, to drink, to write, and they keep on coming. The girl that serves me tea and pannini is Australian. Writing the things I’ve seen down, I can hear the quick fire chatter of Cantonese somewhere behind me. While I eat a friend of the coffee boy comes in with enthusiastic greetings and gushing praise of the weather. As they seat themselves, the three Chinese women leave, each short haired, but ranging in age from 20-something to 30-something. The latter two both have fat soft toys, oversized as key rings, one clasped in her hand with her keys, the other hanging from a black shoulder bag. Two girls come in separately, one a pony tailed Scottish brunette, tiny shoulder back, long purple jumper. The other is a red-haired American, sun glasses balanced on her head, wearing a jacket, too tight trousers describe the curve of her ass, the legs tucked into beaten cowboy boots. The Scottish girl gets tea and a sandwich, the American a fruit cocktail and a coffee, the Scot takes a table inside, the American one of the handful of tables outside. I finish the pannini and stop writing, drink my tea and read other stories.

Labels: coffee, glasgow, spring, summer, tea, weather

She walks passed me as I sit in the street, eating a quick dinner, watching the world go by, before meeting a friend for a film. An Asian girl, wearing a patterned white jacket, with fluffy white collar, contrasted by her long dark hair. But it is the red hand bag and the red trousers that come to just below the knee, the chunky red suede boots, that catch the eye.

After dinner, I go for tea in Borders. Take a window seat and read. A sharp man, pin suited predator, sits with an Asian girl, her hair cut sharp across the fringe. Dressed in black, she contrasts that with a white heart pendant. A second man arrives, also Asian, with the white guy wandering off after he has made introductions between the two. The Asian guy goes for coffees, then the shark returns, another Asian girl in tow. White jacket, red bag, red trousers, red boots. The same girl that had passed me earlier. The two pairs separate to different tables, and conversation takes on the buzz of a first, arranged date. White heart and Asian guy, red bag and pin stripe.

Labels: Asian, bag, borders, dinner, first date, guy, heart, pin stripe, red, tea, White

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

Girl in blue is off the shoulder and foreign. Serves me tea, serves me coffee. And I still can’t make out where it is she is from. Her hair is a ruffled bob cut, all flared up, like she is some kind of sexy girl triceratops.

Labels: blue, coffee, girl, tea, triceratops, waitress