mornings

The mornings are good. Except for those first few initial moments when you wake up. When you feel like you simultaneously have a tonne of bricks dumped on your chest, crushing you, yet your insides are hollow and echoey. Once he’s vertical he’s fine though. There’s so much potential in the day then. 

More often than not he goes out of his way to get a coffee at the small red place, on the corner, opposite the Indian restaurant. It’s a cute, basic little cafe, run by a miniature Italian woman. She can’t make coffee to save her life, but she is always happy and genuinely charmed that people chose to come to her cafe. Her personality makes up for the milky piss she’s about to serve. She writes down every order, in full, in an A4 foolscap. “One Latte. One Sugar. One Apple Danish”. 

The morning rolls easily into noon and after the life admin, the late afternoon comes by. “The Boys will be finished work soon”, “Wonder if they’re fishing tonight, maybe they’ll fancy a beer. 6 o’clock comes and goes. No word yet. “Maybe they’re busy, or they think I’m busy”. “I’m sure they’ll call by 7. Or by 8.” 

His mind wanders again. Quite an awful habit that. Much worse for you than cigarettes. He feels the deadness inside his grow once again. So many people have seen him achieve what most only dream of. But he never felt alive. He always felt alone. Surrounded by hundreds of people, yet alone. He felt alive once though, oh about 10 or 12 years ago or so. Down where the river meets the sea. In those white bed sheets. For once he wasn’t on his own, nor was he lonely. He was sharing a morning. One of those normal mornings that happened every morning, except time started to slow and flow like honey. Tracing her cheek with the back of his hand. It felt more real than anything. When you put two people together that have this unidentifiable connection you don't simply add together their bodies, instead, all their traits and thoughts are multiplied exponentially.