on hold

He was waiting for the traffic to stop so that he could cross the road. Holding the end of a slim cigar between his forefinger and thumb at the height of his chest. He kept it there because it had nowhere else to go. Nothing was moving. Nothing had moved for ages now. He was ready to wait for the length of eternity as he gazed absentmindedly at life on the other side. There was hardly any mind left to be present. Prescribed chemistry had taken over.

a man

He smiled and nodded, and nodded and smiled as the young woman sitting opposite him talked about many things he had no interest in whatsoever.

His interest lay between her thighs.

a woman

He was trying very hard to seduce her with his conversation. He was trying very hard to say something that would inspire her, catch her attention, stimulate a thought. But all she did was nod and smile, and smile and nod, as her eyes scanned the room looking for more male attention and her mind summed up the looks she got.

blind

He takes the same train every day. And travels in the last carriage. He needs to find a place where he can be seated on his own. Beside a window. He places his brown leather shoulder bag on the seat beside him and pulls out a green pen, a ruler and a book with a picture of Jesus on the cover. He reads one chapter, underlining every sentence as he agrees with the underlying message. He puts the book back into his bag from where he extracts a rubber, a pencil and a board on which are clipped a few sheets of sudoku. He rubs and pencils the rest of the journey, secure in another form of logic.

If you knew how to underline the view, or sort out the passengers, you might see a little more.

home

You crossed the road dragging a trolley loaded with black bin bags. The pile was taller than you were. It wasn't easy to keep the whole lot balanced as you hauled all you owned off one pavement onto another. A bag fell off. You smiled a toothless smile and bent down to pick it up. You could feel the eyes of the drivers clutching their wheel watching you, following your every move, as they waited for the light to turn green. You just hoped that it would stay red long enough for you and your dignity to make it to the other side.

fake

Her little girl had just fallen off her tricycle. She rushed to her laughing out loud as people looked on. She let out sharp, nervous, forced peals of laughter whose every note shrieked 'Look at me! What a great mother I am, having so much fun with my child!'.

bore

She sat in a corner of the room perched on the top of a tall stool, her handbag on her lap and her hands politely crossed on top. She didn't say a word all evening.
She was new and felt vulnerable.
And was vulnerable.
And needed to be vulnerable.
And knew how to show vulnerable.
So she sat there wrapped in a coat of affected insecurity and a smile which said 'please look at me and see how shy and unsure I am and if you come and talk to me you will understand that I can only answer your questions very briefly and in a whisper and take no interest in you because if I did the little lonely girl expression on my face would vanish and you wouldn't feel sorry for me anymore'.

this happened to you one morning in 1933

It was already dawn when the front door opened. And their father came in. Weary. Exhausted. Pale. He closed the door. Softly. Took his coat off and laid it over the chair. He prepared breakfast for the boys. A cup of hot cocoa and toast with butter. Or jam. Never both. Both was greedy. Wasteful. Selfish. Then he sat and waited for his sons to come downstairs. With their hair brushed, their faces washed, their long shorts and grey socks. Ready for breakfast. Ready for school.

The three brothers rushed noisily down the stairs and sat untidily around the table. Outside drizzled the usual northern wet. They noticed their father. Sitting. Gloomy. Worried. Too calm. So they stopped talking. They stopped laughing. Their morning romps scampered up the stairs as fast as they had come down.

The boys ate their buttered toast and drank their hot chocolate. In silence. Watching. Wondering. Waiting. Then their father lifted his head. Hands on his lap, eyes moist and a voice trained to hide its feelings, he told them that he had something to tell them. The three boys stopped chewing. The youngest let out a nervous giggle, and searched for his brothers’ approval. But they gave none. No one budged.

«You don’t have a mother any more», their father told them.

they're watching you

He was sitting in a crowded café with a woman, a little girl and a little boy. Most of the crowd had noticed him because he was a popular figure in town. He, however, was noticing no one and spending an inordinate amount of time and energy avoiding looks and attention from those close to him, by giving his own looks and stifling attention to the two children beside him.

It cannot be an easy task to be where he is, which is somewhere between the attention you feign neither to care for nor to notice, and the craving for it.

fourteen

"Where's my sweater?"
"I dont' know."
"You're always moving my stuff."
"You had it on you a few minutes ago."
"I can never find anything. Why do you tidy everything away? I'm always looking for everything. It's so tiring. And then you wonder why I'm late all the time. If you just left my stuff alone. Everything would go much faster." Pause... "It's under my duvet. I didn't put it there. Why did you make my bed?"

hard work

He kissed everyone goodbye but made a deliberate choice to shake her hand faking disinterest in an attempt to disguise his ill-ease in her presence behind a mask of studied indifference.
He was cool.
But so was she.

Downe syndrome

He was watching life rush past him, sitting on a bench on the edge of the street, with his arms crossed and one chromosome too many.