Thing I wrote for a class, turns out I had read the wrong sheet of paper and everyone else wrote about their grandmothers: oops.
He breathed out with deliberate force watching the plume of white vapour, secretly still experiencing that 5-year old fascination of seeing your breath dissipate in the air. His features stayed neutral though, no smiling on a day like this; the key was to look serious in this little world he had constructed around the morning. His mind made the day colder than it was, it made his coat and unnecessary scarf warmer.
A little pretentious as beginnings go, I think to myself, starting in the middle always annoys me. Maybe he didn't have time to write a real beginning or something. Could be. Swig of half cold coffee, eyes on the page.
He resisted the urge to run his hand flailing down the warped iron railings, clattering as he walked. The fence was all that mired the view of the square lake, perfect in the cold sunlight; the leaves on the only tree mirrored in its surface; like a freeze frame explosion twice in the bright air and icy water. The freezing liquid rippled slightly as a breath of wind spoiled the perfect copy of the autumn leaves. The grass bordering the concrete pathway around the water shone with the tiny movement, the very first frost glinting..
Oh dear, overlong descriptive passage; scene setting. Skip to the end. Maybe he started writing in the middle because he had no idea where he was going. The first roll up of the day tastes foul in my mouth; always does lately. I wonder if I should try and quit again. The again answers my question I suppose. Oh shit, ash on the page. I flick the already crumpled sheets against the desk top sending a cloud of stale spilled tobacco and dust into the air. He'd get upset if I ruined his first draft with a burn hole. Eyes down, frost, grass, cracked pavement, lonely bird in the sky, oh god, ah walking again.
He wanders down the gentle slope (I wonder where the hell this is going) breathing clouds from his nostrils, safe in his own frozen world, earphones painting a picture of serenity and calm over the smears of the traffic; making there coughing exhausts into silent graceful clouds set to instrumental music. This was a good day, winter like they have in romantic comedy movies; no horizontal rain, no darkness at mid-day; just cold clean golden sunlight that plays in your eyes as you walk towards it (I always think winter sun is more like a florescent bulb) and glinting frost everywhere.
I wonder if this is what actually goes through his head when he walks around. Its a miracle he hasn't been hit by a truck yet. Bloody hell, five hundred words and all he's written is a someone who's going somewhere who likes lakes and romantic comedy weather patterns. I resist the urge to reach for a big red marker pen. Probably wouldn't find it on this desk....its just a wide flat bin really. My hand reaches for the coffee mug; very classy looking stainless steel affair...shame it makes everything taste like its been in a hip flask for three years. Shit, none left. Is it too early for another cup I wonder? Never.
I cough as I stand up, telling myself its not the smoking; its probably the damp, which isn't much better when you think about it. Clomp down the stairs, grunt at half naked house mate. Kettle on. There are never any cups in my house, we don't know where exactly they go but buying a new set every few months saves us the worry. Perhaps they're under the strata of beer cans that form a sort of aluminum carpet. Aluminium, steel . Shit left my only mug upstairs. Clomp up the stairs, and down again, grunt to housemate now wearing t-shirt. Kettle clicks, return to desk with mug of horrible instant coffee. Now where was I? Where the hell was he more to the point. Glinting frost...right.
The big gray block was approaching, even this morning failed to make it look appealing, his pace had been deliberately slow (yeah I noticed) ; it was slightly too wide for its height, the building, fooled your mind into thinking that you were always closer to it than you were. Probably a mean joke on the part of the architect. (I don't quite get that, wonder if he does) He bites his lip, eying the barrier gate; watching the stream of people jostling in the car park (why the hell does this coffee taste so bad?) he would regret it if he didn't go, he knew, but he would make up for it. What time is it? He should really go. I better go soon. He planted his feet watching, trying not to look like he didn't know what he was doing so's the author apparently. The music streaming into his ears rendered the crowds silent. I realize I've forgotten to eat breakfast again. He turns, then turns again, shields his eyes as he tries to make out the 18th floor of the huge monolith. I can't help but wonder if we have any nutella left. He should go. I should check! But he could save himself the bother. If he missed it now would he be able to go again? Would he be able to show his face....afterall this was it, if he walked away now it would all be finished.
Then the sky turned brown.
So did the grass and those exploding trees, the huge monolith and the slow footsteps: brown. The Perfect fluorescent sun: light brown. The sparkling frost: brown. The mirror water: diluted brown. I try to mop up the coffee with another sheet of paper but the words bleed into the steaming liquid as it begins to trickle off the desktop; lost in a sea of nescafe gold blend.
Shit. He won't be happy.
Rubbish story anyway.
