Art Pact 47
I watch Carrie through the window. She and her friend are laughing, and I feel an unfamiliar pain in my throat. I sit down at the outermost table, close to the curb. Free of their rush-hour jams further into the city the cars are thundering past, swirling up choking storms of road dust and heavier rubbish that jostles around my feet, nestling into the lee of my legs. Carrie says something that makes her friend throw her head back in an uncontrollable laugh, and I look away to see that an empty packet of Doritos has captured a Coke can, and the two of them are trying to escape the cold fingers of the wind by banging repeatedly into my shin. I can't feel anything there.
I don't notice the waitress, so I jump when she says (from behind my shoulder):
"There's plenty of room inside, wouldn't you rather sit there?"
Yes, I would.
"No, I'm -" I start hesitantly, but I realise that this will only inflame her sympathies. Brusqueness is the key here. "A black coffee. Please."
I hate coffee, but I have to have something to stay here, and there is a great danger that I might spoil my terrible mood if I get something that I would enjoy.
"Are you sure you wouldn't rather come in?"
"No thank you, just the coffee."
"Coming right up," she says, rolling her eyes. I assume that it will be some while before she comes back - she has the look of someone who has already mentally discounted the chance of a tip. I suppose that's the best I can hope for.
Carrie and her friend have started to chat again. Carrie chops the air with the side of one slender hand, making some point or other. The friend agrees, and her outstretched index finger taps against the edge of her cup twice - then a pause - then again. Some esoteric point of music, I guess, so perhaps her friend is a work friend, some colleague from the school, an administrator in the music department or (unlikely) another teacher. I realise that this makes me feel better about her (the friend, that is). I can't imagine her as someone who is a great confidante, so perhaps Carrie has not told her about me. I haven't met her, that's certain. I narrow my eyes, trying to pick out from the stream of lip movements what Carrie might be saying. Perhaps she'll say the name of her friend. No, stupid, no-one says the name of the person they're talking to. I need to calm down, the name of this unknown friend is unimportant in the long run. Nothing's important in the long run, because Carrie and I are over.
I feel the pain in my throat again - it is horrible, like a tense cramp in the muscles beneath my jaw. I do not understand where it is coming from, or why I have never felt it before. The wind from the passing cars is cold and acrid, perhaps it's something to do with that. As if to disprove my theory a juggernaut passes, the wake of it turbulent and filled with choking diesel fumes. My throat hurts just as it did before, neither more nor less. It is not that, then.
"There you are, sir." The waitress was quicker than I expected, dropping off the coffee and the bill and scurrying away quickly - presumably in case I ordered anything else. Her uniform (such as it is) looks cold - an apron over jeans and a t-shirt that roughly matches the cafe's colour scheme. A modern phenomenon, the desire for employees to look casual but somehow maintain the company line. Her life would be so much simpler, I think, had they simply given her a set of clothes to wear, a set that matched everyone else.
The thought makes me look at Carrie again. Like all the teachers, she is dressed the way she likes. Carrie likes smart but slightly frumpy, a look that seems to be unique to the scholastic profession. She brushes a stray strand of hair away from her face, tucking it behind her glasses and adjusting the butterfly grip at the back of her head.
The Coke can batters at my leg again. I kick it away, then the Doritos bag after it, and the two conspirators are torn away by the breeze from the traffic and spun off into the distance. They have done their work: my trousers, standard sixth-form black slacks, are covered in crisp dust down one leg. I take a sip of my terrible coffee. Bitter, bitter, and suddenly I understand what that pain in my throat is. I am trying not to cry.
I let the pain ease.
I don't notice the waitress, so I jump when she says (from behind my shoulder):
"There's plenty of room inside, wouldn't you rather sit there?"
Yes, I would.
"No, I'm -" I start hesitantly, but I realise that this will only inflame her sympathies. Brusqueness is the key here. "A black coffee. Please."
I hate coffee, but I have to have something to stay here, and there is a great danger that I might spoil my terrible mood if I get something that I would enjoy.
"Are you sure you wouldn't rather come in?"
"No thank you, just the coffee."
"Coming right up," she says, rolling her eyes. I assume that it will be some while before she comes back - she has the look of someone who has already mentally discounted the chance of a tip. I suppose that's the best I can hope for.
Carrie and her friend have started to chat again. Carrie chops the air with the side of one slender hand, making some point or other. The friend agrees, and her outstretched index finger taps against the edge of her cup twice - then a pause - then again. Some esoteric point of music, I guess, so perhaps her friend is a work friend, some colleague from the school, an administrator in the music department or (unlikely) another teacher. I realise that this makes me feel better about her (the friend, that is). I can't imagine her as someone who is a great confidante, so perhaps Carrie has not told her about me. I haven't met her, that's certain. I narrow my eyes, trying to pick out from the stream of lip movements what Carrie might be saying. Perhaps she'll say the name of her friend. No, stupid, no-one says the name of the person they're talking to. I need to calm down, the name of this unknown friend is unimportant in the long run. Nothing's important in the long run, because Carrie and I are over.
I feel the pain in my throat again - it is horrible, like a tense cramp in the muscles beneath my jaw. I do not understand where it is coming from, or why I have never felt it before. The wind from the passing cars is cold and acrid, perhaps it's something to do with that. As if to disprove my theory a juggernaut passes, the wake of it turbulent and filled with choking diesel fumes. My throat hurts just as it did before, neither more nor less. It is not that, then.
"There you are, sir." The waitress was quicker than I expected, dropping off the coffee and the bill and scurrying away quickly - presumably in case I ordered anything else. Her uniform (such as it is) looks cold - an apron over jeans and a t-shirt that roughly matches the cafe's colour scheme. A modern phenomenon, the desire for employees to look casual but somehow maintain the company line. Her life would be so much simpler, I think, had they simply given her a set of clothes to wear, a set that matched everyone else.
The thought makes me look at Carrie again. Like all the teachers, she is dressed the way she likes. Carrie likes smart but slightly frumpy, a look that seems to be unique to the scholastic profession. She brushes a stray strand of hair away from her face, tucking it behind her glasses and adjusting the butterfly grip at the back of her head.
The Coke can batters at my leg again. I kick it away, then the Doritos bag after it, and the two conspirators are torn away by the breeze from the traffic and spun off into the distance. They have done their work: my trousers, standard sixth-form black slacks, are covered in crisp dust down one leg. I take a sip of my terrible coffee. Bitter, bitter, and suddenly I understand what that pain in my throat is. I am trying not to cry.
I let the pain ease.
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