Not a poem. Not a story. Not an exercise in character development. And, erm, no... no speech marks. Not one for the pedants.
*
I... am bored.
I'm waiting at a train station. Been on a reception for the country's best English teachers in some godforesaken shithole up in the grim North and desperate to come home.
I went in disguise. So I am wearing a long silk dress - a light green, with hints of silver - and my long brown velvet coat with the Georgian painted brooch, the portrait of a young woman, long dead, caught in her prime, on it. Long wavy thick dark red hair. Boots. They wanted eccentric English teacher, they got it. I look like a Harry Potter extra.
Yes. Bored.
I go into the station bar. Raise the odd stare - they aren't used to different, not even at the station - order a pint and a shot, Bisongrass vodka, and knock it back in one. I pick up the pint, still at the bar and look.
There's you.
Alone. Naturally. Not looking up. Naturally. Scribbling ferociously in a notebook, like an American college student on a once-in-a-lifetime trip around Europe.
I drink the pint.
I order the same again. The barman, boy really, attempts what I assume is flirting.
Nah. Can't be arsed.
So, yeah. I guess that leaves you.
Fuelled up, I sit at the table next to yours - the place is tiny. I tap on my Blackberry.
Your notebook irritates me. I can hear your pen scraping across the paper, and I'm guessing it's a fountain pen. Something fancy, I'm guessing. Or old. Montblanc maybe.
Yeah. Irritates me.
That's one helluva noisy pen, I voice.
You pause.
