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Entry tags:
some writing
Preliminary notes:
this has nothing to do with the Gratuitous German story. I'd sort of forgotten I'd written it until today, when I was looking for something else, and discovered it, wedged between my bed and some folders. I read it, and I liked what I read, which doesn't often happen with stuff I wrote ages ago. Because this is two and a half years old, you see (much to my surprise).
Anyway, I'll shut up now and let you get on and read (should you wish to do so).
~*~
The first time you see him - although you don't see him so much as feel him - your shoulder slams hard into his arm, sending his ridiculously over-priced coffee flying. How the scalding liquid hits neither you, him, nor any other commuter is something of a small mystery. Even though you don't look him in the eye, have no idea what he looks like, you glean one thing from this first, chance, meeting: he's almost a foot taller than you are.
The second time, he sees you coming, and sidesteps you with elegance. The movement catches your eye, and so you look up. His legs are long and thin, like a dancer's. Maybe he is a dancer. Who knows?
The third and fourth times, you notice his curly hair and his long, pianist's fingers. You always wanted curly hair - instead yours is straight. Your hands are square, your digits stubby.
On the Tube on the way home, it occurs to you that you always wanted a brother. Instead, there was just you. Only you. Not that it didn't have its perks, but you always wanted someone to share things with. You imagine that perhaps this mystery man might make a good brother.
He is probably already someone else's.
The fifth time, you are in a much worse mood than usual. He smiles, and a slight dimple forms, but only on the right side of his face. He lifts his over-priced coffee in greeting, but you don't see it.
This continues for some time.
It is a wordless friendship, although that is a strange way to describe it, when you don't give him a moment's thought most of the time. He slips from your mind like melting snow.
You're not even sure you'd be able to recognise him if you saw him out of context.
And then, one day, he stops you. Puts a hand on your shoulder, and says, "Wait."
Of course, this is the first time you've ever heard him speak. But the touch, the weight of his long fingers lightly squeezing your shoulder, and the sound of the word is not unfamiliar.
And yet you know he is a stranger.
"Why are you always so angry?"
This supposition does not sit well with you, and you shrug his hand from its place on your shoulder.
"I'm not." And you walk away.
How dare he make such an assumption? He doesn't know you. He doesn't care about you. What is it to do with him what sort of mood you're in when you come home?
Annoyed as you are, you still can't help but think that, if you were to have a brother, you'd want it to be him. You were not meant to be alone, and you've always felt, for your entire life, as though there was something missing. Someone.
The next time, the situation is reversed. It is he who is coming out of the Tube station; you who is entering. He has a book in his hands, and he holds it nervously, as though afraid he might break it somehow.
His demeanour changes slightly when he sees you.
"I hoped I'd see you first. I didn't want to forget this."
He offers the book, and you hesitate before taking it. You turn it over in your hands. The pages are dog-eared from age and repeated readings. The spine is so cracked that you can't read the title or the author's name. Instead there is simply a jumble of gold-coloured foil.
"I hope you like it," he says. There is that smile again, pulling the now familiar dimple in his right cheek.
"Thanks," you reply, and he's gone. Off to who knows where, probably stopping to buy yet another over-priced coffee on his way.
You slide the book carefully into your bag, hoping that you won't forget it's there when finally you return home.
*
On opening its front cover, you see a name carefully written in black ink. Just a first name - Nicholas. So now there is a name for the face. "Nic," he will explain a few days' time, "with no K."
You don't think he looks like a Nicholas, but you are unsure of what name might suit him better. Names are strange things.
You put the book to one side, and it remains there, forgotten, until...
The second reversal.
It is early morning, and it is cold. This time it is you with the over-priced coffee - a latte with an uninspiring flat foam, and far from enough sugar.
He is already waiting for you, leaning against the wall of the entrance to the Tube station. Loitering with intent, as your policeman cousin might say. He's wearing a long, dark coat, probably made of wool, and a wide smile. He doesn't look in the least bit cold, he looks excited to see you.
"Don't you have a job to go to?" You can't help yourself.
The dimple appears. He is evidently amused. You have one, and only one, but yours appears on the left side of your face. But he doesn't know that yet. He has yet to make you smile.
"It's my day off."
"It's not mine." You move to step past him, and his hand is on your arm. Not grabbing, or forcing, just the lightest touch.
"No-one will notice you're not there."
Momentarily, you're creeped out by this seemingly stalkerish pronouncement, but you know that he's right.
"It's only one day." He cocks his head slightly. "You can go back to forgetting all about me from tomorrow."
You feel yourself grimace. None of this is what you intended when you awoke this morning.
He takes your free hand in his. His touch is warm, soothing, and comforting, as though you've been missing something your entire life, and have only just rediscovered it. "Come on - I have a story to tell you."
On the Tube, he lets you take the free spot, despite your protestations to the opposite. He stands besides you, impassive, like a sentinel. You don't say two words to each other for the entirety of the journey, and you repeatedly wonder what the hell you're doing here.
You sneak a look at him. He is content, serene.
You sip your coffee, and say nothing.
You get off at Charing Cross. A short walk, and you're at Trafalgar Square, watched over by the National Gallery. You could probably do this walk with your eyes shut.
"Don't worry," he says, when he's taken your hand again, like he's afraid you'll run off given half a chance. "We're not staying outside."
First is da Vinci. Likely only because it's on the ground floor and nearest to the entrance. You've seen the cartoon with John the Baptist a million times, but you never get sick of it.
You sit down, pretending for a moment that you're taking in the atmosphere and then: "You said you had a story to tell me."
"I do."
"So?"
"I will tell you when the time is right."
It would not be wrong to say that already you're finding him infuriating. Although at least his choice in art galleries is to be approved of. He could've taken you to the Tate Modern, after all.
~*~
Final notes:
I no longer have any idea what story Nic was going to tell the main character. Apparently, I once knew where this was going, but not any more. This was written entirely to tickle my id and boy, does it do that. So I will completely understand if nobody else likes it.
Comments if you have them would be good :)
this has nothing to do with the Gratuitous German story. I'd sort of forgotten I'd written it until today, when I was looking for something else, and discovered it, wedged between my bed and some folders. I read it, and I liked what I read, which doesn't often happen with stuff I wrote ages ago. Because this is two and a half years old, you see (much to my surprise).
Anyway, I'll shut up now and let you get on and read (should you wish to do so).
~*~
The first time you see him - although you don't see him so much as feel him - your shoulder slams hard into his arm, sending his ridiculously over-priced coffee flying. How the scalding liquid hits neither you, him, nor any other commuter is something of a small mystery. Even though you don't look him in the eye, have no idea what he looks like, you glean one thing from this first, chance, meeting: he's almost a foot taller than you are.
The second time, he sees you coming, and sidesteps you with elegance. The movement catches your eye, and so you look up. His legs are long and thin, like a dancer's. Maybe he is a dancer. Who knows?
The third and fourth times, you notice his curly hair and his long, pianist's fingers. You always wanted curly hair - instead yours is straight. Your hands are square, your digits stubby.
On the Tube on the way home, it occurs to you that you always wanted a brother. Instead, there was just you. Only you. Not that it didn't have its perks, but you always wanted someone to share things with. You imagine that perhaps this mystery man might make a good brother.
He is probably already someone else's.
The fifth time, you are in a much worse mood than usual. He smiles, and a slight dimple forms, but only on the right side of his face. He lifts his over-priced coffee in greeting, but you don't see it.
This continues for some time.
It is a wordless friendship, although that is a strange way to describe it, when you don't give him a moment's thought most of the time. He slips from your mind like melting snow.
You're not even sure you'd be able to recognise him if you saw him out of context.
And then, one day, he stops you. Puts a hand on your shoulder, and says, "Wait."
Of course, this is the first time you've ever heard him speak. But the touch, the weight of his long fingers lightly squeezing your shoulder, and the sound of the word is not unfamiliar.
And yet you know he is a stranger.
"Why are you always so angry?"
This supposition does not sit well with you, and you shrug his hand from its place on your shoulder.
"I'm not." And you walk away.
How dare he make such an assumption? He doesn't know you. He doesn't care about you. What is it to do with him what sort of mood you're in when you come home?
Annoyed as you are, you still can't help but think that, if you were to have a brother, you'd want it to be him. You were not meant to be alone, and you've always felt, for your entire life, as though there was something missing. Someone.
The next time, the situation is reversed. It is he who is coming out of the Tube station; you who is entering. He has a book in his hands, and he holds it nervously, as though afraid he might break it somehow.
His demeanour changes slightly when he sees you.
"I hoped I'd see you first. I didn't want to forget this."
He offers the book, and you hesitate before taking it. You turn it over in your hands. The pages are dog-eared from age and repeated readings. The spine is so cracked that you can't read the title or the author's name. Instead there is simply a jumble of gold-coloured foil.
"I hope you like it," he says. There is that smile again, pulling the now familiar dimple in his right cheek.
"Thanks," you reply, and he's gone. Off to who knows where, probably stopping to buy yet another over-priced coffee on his way.
You slide the book carefully into your bag, hoping that you won't forget it's there when finally you return home.
*
On opening its front cover, you see a name carefully written in black ink. Just a first name - Nicholas. So now there is a name for the face. "Nic," he will explain a few days' time, "with no K."
You don't think he looks like a Nicholas, but you are unsure of what name might suit him better. Names are strange things.
You put the book to one side, and it remains there, forgotten, until...
The second reversal.
It is early morning, and it is cold. This time it is you with the over-priced coffee - a latte with an uninspiring flat foam, and far from enough sugar.
He is already waiting for you, leaning against the wall of the entrance to the Tube station. Loitering with intent, as your policeman cousin might say. He's wearing a long, dark coat, probably made of wool, and a wide smile. He doesn't look in the least bit cold, he looks excited to see you.
"Don't you have a job to go to?" You can't help yourself.
The dimple appears. He is evidently amused. You have one, and only one, but yours appears on the left side of your face. But he doesn't know that yet. He has yet to make you smile.
"It's my day off."
"It's not mine." You move to step past him, and his hand is on your arm. Not grabbing, or forcing, just the lightest touch.
"No-one will notice you're not there."
Momentarily, you're creeped out by this seemingly stalkerish pronouncement, but you know that he's right.
"It's only one day." He cocks his head slightly. "You can go back to forgetting all about me from tomorrow."
You feel yourself grimace. None of this is what you intended when you awoke this morning.
He takes your free hand in his. His touch is warm, soothing, and comforting, as though you've been missing something your entire life, and have only just rediscovered it. "Come on - I have a story to tell you."
On the Tube, he lets you take the free spot, despite your protestations to the opposite. He stands besides you, impassive, like a sentinel. You don't say two words to each other for the entirety of the journey, and you repeatedly wonder what the hell you're doing here.
You sneak a look at him. He is content, serene.
You sip your coffee, and say nothing.
You get off at Charing Cross. A short walk, and you're at Trafalgar Square, watched over by the National Gallery. You could probably do this walk with your eyes shut.
"Don't worry," he says, when he's taken your hand again, like he's afraid you'll run off given half a chance. "We're not staying outside."
First is da Vinci. Likely only because it's on the ground floor and nearest to the entrance. You've seen the cartoon with John the Baptist a million times, but you never get sick of it.
You sit down, pretending for a moment that you're taking in the atmosphere and then: "You said you had a story to tell me."
"I do."
"So?"
"I will tell you when the time is right."
It would not be wrong to say that already you're finding him infuriating. Although at least his choice in art galleries is to be approved of. He could've taken you to the Tate Modern, after all.
~*~
Final notes:
I no longer have any idea what story Nic was going to tell the main character. Apparently, I once knew where this was going, but not any more. This was written entirely to tickle my id and boy, does it do that. So I will completely understand if nobody else likes it.
Comments if you have them would be good :)