literature

The English Man

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Squelchina's avatar
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Literature Text

He was there again today. He was pale, and ordered a latté with an English accent.
He stood out. He wore tawny hair, and Doctor Martins.
Everyday, everyday he sat down in a corner, with an empty seat next to him. Always, he never looks around. He looks to the empty seat, will cock his head to one side, and then sniff at the latté, before sipping. Every time his head inclined, different shades of brown hair pass over each other.
Everyday he walks in his hair starts getting lighter.
It's visible when he's been to the beach. He comes in with pink skin, windswept hair, and no belt. He doesn’t wear a belt on the days he goes to the beach.
He still wears his Doc Martins though.
I admire that in an English Man.
Come to the great pit of sand, and moody weather, and every day wear Doc Martins, the same ones. The ones that have the Union Jack on them, and the way he looks at that empty chair.
Maybe I'll sit there one day. I'll see if he sits opposite me, and inclines his head to me, or if he'll just sit in my seat. Sit in my seat, and watch to the left, watch me as I watch him. It doesn't seem likely he'll look to the right to see the ocean. See a plunging valley of wild, luscious green that scattered to rocks that plummet into a forget-me-not-blue. Only on Sundays can it be guaranteed that colour.
For a short moment, I think about, if I was him, and sitting here. I look straight ahead, I don't lean on a hand. Looking straight ahead, my eyes can focus past the edge of the bar, and over a few tables, where it's never full enough for people to sit, except for Saturdays. Through the window, there is the seam of the blue meeting the sky.
The colour is catchy.
The blues seems the fling forwards to meet my eyes, and it engulfs my head. The blues stings at my eyes and throbs at my head, freezes my brain. It brings forwards hallucinations of days gone long ago, and what lies in the universe. I get confused.
It was the weather.

He doesn't pull out the seat like most people.  
I think we're they're only two people who come in, and don't pull out our seats. I should. But I don't. I like to pretend I can just slip in, unnoticed. He can. Not a sound escapes his chair, whilst mine make that high-pitched seagull noise.
This is sort of sad.
I'm starting to pick up on things simular between us. I noted the other day that he has a flesh hole in his ear. I tried that once. Didn't work. But I've always wanted one. It could be something we can talk about.
I know what it is, it's like rebounding.
I dumped the other 'him' the other week. I hate pointless relationships. Hate. Hate. Hate. That's what I do. I wonder if he feel's that too. From the two weeks I'd been watching him there was not a sign of hate. Yet not even a flicker of emotion.
Except for the acknowledgement to his chair.
In need to find something else to delve my mind into. That’s what I am and that's why I notice this. That's why I notice that he wears the same pair of jeans every day. Except for the beach days. On beach days he wears board-shorts. They're brandless. Like mine.
A third point.
I need to stop this. I can find a mind employment somewhere else other than in him. I need to.
He just looks to his chair and drinks a latté. Wears Doc Martins and has brown hair. It's getting lighter. He's getting darker.
You can tell he hasn't lived here long.
His skin has the virginity to the sun that some English people's do.
Give it a month.

He wore a jumper today. The same grey as the sky outside. He accessorised with forest green eyes.
First time that's been noticed. The black of tee shirts don't bring it out, especially when there's a flood of green on the front.
That's just on him.
Plenty of other people, green brings our green.
Not on the English man that orders a latté every day, and inclines his head to a chair.
He also wears cuffs. Inch studs producing from leather. It caused the sleeves of the grey jumped to scrunch. They didn;t cover the cuffs. He looked like he didn't want holes in the sleeves just yet. Although the spikes could fit in his flesh hole. It was hollow.
So hollow baby. I'm so hollow.
I can tell, because I can't bleed.
I wonder if he can bleed. I use scissor and knives and still can't bleed. Not dripping in fountains like it should.
He doesn’t look like the type. He has brown hair, and wears band tops.

He has patches on his jeans. A new one's been added.
I can see it on his knee, as he sidles into his seat, hair moving with head to greet the opposite chair. It's black based, and it has an outline to one side, and then writing. I can't read it from here.
That’s his patch. His hair still dresses in the same casual brown.
Maybe I should sit opposite him one day. Maybe he can incline his head to me.
But that's as likely as me finding someone to care about me. Me finding somebody to love.
The English man is sitting there with his latté steaming into his nostrils. My iced coffee doesn't steam into my nostrils. I'd be worried if it did. It just chills my hand, and clinks against my lip piercing.
He doesn't have facial piercings. Except for the ears. He doesn't have his lip pierced, or his nose, or his eyebrow. He's not a metal head.
I'm a metal head.
I hate metal music.
He shows no inclination to liking metal. I like that.
He would have to get undressed to go on a plane though.
The moody weather changed today. No longer was it grey like his jumper. It was blue, unlike his top. He was embracing the columbous clouds and forget-me-not-blue on a Sunday. He wore a muscle top. Black with yellow on the front. It might say something amusing. He doesn’t speak like an amusing person. He speaks, "One latté please," with an English accent. Maybe no one will ever know if he's amusing. I should find out. I should find something better to do.

He wouldn't take his best friend's ex-boyfriend, even before they were over them would he? I don't think so. That's too Movie-Life for him.
He would rock. He's an English man that drinks latté’s, and wears patches on his jeans, and Doc Martins. He's sure to rock. He wears grey, and doesn't realise what a spell it casts on his eyes. He wouldn't do something like that.
Would he?
These things make me forget that I had been counting our similarities. Counting similarities that tried to make me forget that I wanted him still. I didn't want to let him go.
Think this to forget this.
Is his mind this complicated? The 'his' that drinks latté’s, and wears inch-long studded cuffs.
Not the him that will go for the sexier best friend.
What would he say? What would the English man say, that has been coming to this café for three weeks.
The waiter that brings the iced coffee every morning would say, ruffling his grey beard with his words, "He is your ex-boyfriend,"
As for the waitress that brings the sandwiches around for Sunday lunch, she would make the information favourable. "Best friends don't hook in ex boyfriends of their best friends.
Especially when they know that you still like them,"
Ah, but what would He say. The ‘he’ that's going out with the best friend. He would say, yes he would go out with her. That's what he said. He asked her out.
Does he understand?
Why doesn’t he understand?
Maybe I should ask him what to do. The ‘him’ that wore United Jack Doctor Martins. Even at the beach.
He wore them today.
His hair was windswept and skin slightly pink.
He might be peeling tomorrow.

He never seems to peel. He always cocks his head towards the chair opposite him, but he never peels. Pink fades back into an English white, that is steadily getting more pigments. Every week, or maybe every second day his skin has changed tone slightly.
He walks here every day. Whenever the sun is out, his skin gets it.
Unless he's wearing a jumper. He's not today. He wears jumpers on the cloudy days. They match. And it brings out his green, green eyes.
Green like me.
Green with envy.
Because I can't be happy. He seems happy. He doesn't seem sad. But does that make him happy? No.
The waitress is happy. With her Colgate smile and charming mascara eyes. She has a boyfriend, she has friends, she's loaded with cash and loves her life.
I wonder if she does it just to spite me.
They're together, just to spite me.
Make me know it's my entire fault.
All my fault. Mine alone, like the greedy being I am. All mine.
He's sitting over there, with his latté. And he doesn't seem to have a care in the world. He sits straight but comfortable. How the teachers make you sit to type. He sips his latté, after letting it steam in his nostrils, that are metal free. He most likely doesn't burn his tongue when he sips at it. He doesn't strain muscles in his neck to incline his head to the chair. His life must be okay. He doesn’t hurt himself just by coming to the cafe.
I wonder if he knows anything.
Anything about me.
Does he know I only drink iced coffee here?
Does he know that I watch him here?

His laces were undone today.
His right lace is black, and his left lace is white. He still speaks in his English accent and wears brown hair.
Maybe he'd been running. But running in Doctor Martins is a pain. He's strange. It's liked.
He sits down without acknowledging the chair today. I watch him, and I know my brows furrow with interest, as he doesn't sniff his latté, and takes a sip.
He burns his tongue.
It's noticeable. He twitches slightly, and his face tightens. He sits up straighter, and ruffles his shoulders that are draped in a normal black tee.
The one that has splashed green flood the front. It doesn't bring out his eyes, that are set in pale skin.
He looks lighter today.
Maybe the sun's effects are beginning to work backwards. He's gone as brown or pink as possible, and so now he has to invert. Forced to return to the pale English skin, his accent then thickening too. Soon he'll start walking backwards, and eventually hit England.
He's more likely to be sick.
He looks it. Attention to detail shows a pink nose, and slightly ruddy cheeks. But his tawny hair covers his cheeks a fair bit. His flesh hole is still visible though.
He inclines his head to chair. Stands, and for once does not finish the latté.
Maybe he holds grudges like me. Holding them like every brick in a wall against those that burn.

He was there again today. With his pale skin, and inclination to the chair as normal. But he sits down and rests a head in his hands. He almost pokes an eye out with his inch long studded cuffs, splitting from leather. He's not sitting straight, and it takes him a while to order his latté.
He had better be okay. He wears Doc Martins every day and has patches on his jeans. I like him.
He's windswept today though. Wearing boardies, but he's perfectly dry. My eyes can focus around him, and another perfect day swirls like a halo around his head, two clouds shooting past, just so I can see him as an angel.
He isn't an angel.
Angel's don't sit by themselves and have chairs for company. That wasn't an angel, he wasn't an angel, as much as the floating clouds behind his back wanted me to think.
He does look like he's in pain.
Maybe the English man that drinks latté 's, has a deadly illness that eats him from the outside, and has just grabbed something like his heart. Constricting, tightening.
Oh god, I can't breathe.
He can't either?
No he's fine.
So am I. Everything's in the head.
He'll turn out not to be there. Just like everything I start to clutch at.

He's not perfect. He wears brown hair and notices chairs. But he's not as perfect as one may think. In the end, people can break, and obviously, the English latté -drinker without a tan, is nearing his end. His head hits his hands again.
And he's not wearing his cuffs.
His grey jump is tucked around his thumbs, and curling around his knuckles. His jeans are more crumpled. He still wears his Doctor Martins, with his still laces are undone. His latté sits in front of him, and he breathes it in. You can see the steam being drawn into him, and the expansion of his lungs, as his midriff shifts out with the pushing of a digestive system. His jumper isn't droopy. It's grey. It's sort of fitted to his body.
The English man looks unhappy, with his latté and empty seat.

He inclines his head to me the next day.
He sits down, and orders his latté. I sit there, and drink my iced coffee. He says nothing, and I notice the grey jumper.
It's grey.
Grey without a smudge of dirt, or freckle of sand. A logo isn't pressed into it. It's a lonely jumper. He has been lonely. Right now he's not.
I sit there. And I had received an incline of the head.
He drinks his latté after letting the steam waft into his nostrils for a few moments. His nose is still slightly red, and I notice, what I had not noticed, even though he was wearing grey.
The Doc Martin wearing English man's eyes had dulled. Their green did not flare out now. I am positive. I could not be mistaken.
He looked me directly in the eye.
He looked me directly in the eye three times before he spoke.
"You look well," He says, and I cannot resist my reply.
"You don't look too well," The English man blinks, eyes puzzling.
"I thought you only watched," He then says.
"I'm over that."
"What happened?"
"Whatever happened to you," He looks at me, and suddenly smiles, before he drinks his latté. His English accent presses into my head, and I cannot help but smile in reply.
"I have always been sick," He then says after a pause. I pause as well, before responding,
"You look worse,"
"You look better," Is his response. Our eyes meet.
I was getting better. He was getting worse.
He stared at me, head tilted, gently to the side, his shades of slightly lightened hair trailing over each other in a waterfall of movement.
"I have always been like this," He responds quietly, eyes dropping as his sips from his latté with an English accent.
Raising his head, his green eyes press into my eyes, dig into my retinas.
It was all in my head. It was time for me to stop.
I need to stop, and realise, what can only be accomplished in a head, and not in words.
The English man who wore Doc Martins, even at the beach, nodded his head, before standing.
Leaving me facing the doors of the café,
The doors of the café I had never faced in such a way before.
I have been working on this for the past few months.
My past few mounths are told through this, and I could only finish it now.
Because although it still hurts, I battled my own mind, and exited with a truce.
© 2006 - 2024 Squelchina
Comments11
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0042's avatar
This is amazing, gloriously confusing and repetitive and so gripping at the same time. It's quite possibly one of the best things I have read in the past few months.