art by poo reun
i have fallen into the habit of waiting for her in the mornings.
i like to watch her struggle with the cafe’s heavy glass doors, yellow bike helmet in one hand, large purple messenger bag slung across her chest. once inside, she scans the room and moves quickly to the table by the window, the only one with free seats, where i am. she offers me a polite smile and points to the chair opposite me. i look up from my book, feign distraction, then nod before i return to reading.
she pulls out laptop, mobile phone, and novel from her bag and place them on the table. she’s halfway through the old man and the sea. last week she was reading Henry Miller’s tropic of cancer. she opens up her laptop and orders from a hovering waitress without looking at her or the menu; but her voice is soft and low so she comes across as shy not rude. she asks for two fried eggs with toast and a large cappuccino.
a couple enters the cafe and contemplates our table with its two remaining seats. i wave them over and offer to move so they can sit next to each other. the girl removes her bag from the chair nearest her and drops it on the floor. she continues working. i settle in beside her, and we, the couple and i, smile cordially at each other but say no more. i slip behind my book and the couple peruses the menu.
the couple leaves soon after they finish their breakfast of muffins and coffee. the girl is oblivious and does not look up until she needs the loo. i am a harmless looking soul– and perhaps she recognises me as a regular– because she turns to me and asks if i could keep an eye on her laptop. i smile, i say, of course. when she is in the loo, i peer at her laptop and i’m pleased to see that she is in the process of finishing the story about an old man and his granddaughter, five years old and blind from birth. it is a simple plot and written with care. i missed a few pages but i am able to follow the narrative. i pull back just as she comes out and i watch as she approaches the cashier to pay. she decides on an orange muffin. i suspect this is her lunch.
she returns to the table and i am reading my book. she clears her throat and i ignore her. i know she wants to thank me but i feel this is superfluous as i have already claimed my payment. she has packed her things and now waits for me to look up. i can feel her stare and i wonder if she is thinking to use me in her next story.
i stand up abruptly and head to the loo.
Reblogged this on listentothebabe.
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Ah hah! He’s not after her. He wants to find out what happens next in her story. I see what you did there… 😉
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yes, the narrator is also an unreliable narrator. 😉
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Hm. Yes. Good point. 😛
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😉
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He’s desperate to fuck her, but he’s playing it cool (even to us, and maybe to himself – but he knows deep down).
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An unreliable narrator lies to himself as well. But yes definitely the narrator is obsessed but the reasons may not be straightforward…
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The games people play. Why didn’t he just smile – she obviously seeks him out too.
If I were young again and knew what I know now.
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Thank you for your comment. Yes perhaps this is a game of sorts for our unreliable narrator but it may be beyond control. The narrator is a bit mad… 🙂
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Can’t wait to read the piece she write about him. Oh, wait …
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I am left wondering if this is part of a longer story but also like that this also works as a standalone piece. It is no bad thing to leave the reader wanting for more. And the narrator, unreliable or otherwise, may be female?
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Haha yes! The narrator is mad and obsessive and may very well be female…
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It’s fascinating to see that others believe the narrator to be male while I assumed the narrator was female right from the start! I love the space you’ve created for reader interpretation. It’s like the work is formed of layers: layers of detail, layers of fact, layers of suspicion, layers of our own ideas and assumptions as readers, layers of intrigue, layers of innocence… it’s all there. Marvellous, darling xx
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Me too! I thought the narrator female. I didn’t see any sexual desire either; just great curiousity. And I thought / think that the observed was / is you, Babe.
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The narrator is female. But this is all fiction. Nothing of the sort happened to me. But both the narrator and the writer are composites of me. Perhaps I’m lazy taking too many details from my own life. 🙂
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Thank you. I deliberately wrote it leaving many things unsaid; but if the reader contemplates it, it becomes all fairly obvious. Wonder if I was too subtle? And yes the narrator is a woman.
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God bless Henry Miller and cappuccino.
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it interests me that the focus is so tight — two characters mainly and mostly set at one table. nonetheless, plenty goes on within the culture of a coffee house which has its conventions.
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I think this is what I was trying to juxtapose the characters against.
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This is interesting…I assumed she was female as well. Ended too soon 🙂
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Thank you. 😊
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You are welcome. 🙂 I got so drawn in!
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Noooooo. It can’t end here.
Where’s the next page? Chapter? How do I keep reading. There is more story here, I know it I know it I know it. I’m heading down to the nearest café right now and see if I can watch the ending.
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haha thank you.
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There is a mystery here. There is a sinister feel to it. I assumed the narrator was male but if he is a she then the mystery deepens. I wonder if she is older? I think perhaps older – a harmless looking soul. So many possibilities.
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