By Anthony Hitchin.
Stars or Planes
She smiles at me. TV drones. We drink a coffee.
She smiles at me. I turn my head a little and she catches my eye and again she smiles at me.
‘What’s so fucking funny?’ ‘Nothing’, she says, ‘Can’t I smile at my husband now, then?’ She brings me a triple gin. I look down as she passes it because I know she is smiling again. There is a documentary on TV about the daily life of an ‘ordinary’ family; they are recorded by cameras in every room of their home. Right now, they are dancing self-consciously in the lounge. Dead centre to camera … . I sigh. ‘What now?’ she says. ‘Well, it’s hardly fucking natural is it? They’re obviously conscious of the cameras. The whole fucking concept is flawed.’ I down the gin burning my throat. My head fuzzes semi-pleasantly. My jaw grows numb and I stop grinding my teeth. She changes channel and I am looking at blurry CCTV images of a crime in progress; a man is wielding an incredibly long, curved knife. Almost a sword. The assailant’s figure draws reaper like shadows on the street while a terrified adolescent runs just feet ahead. She looks at me and this time she isn’t smiling: ‘See?’ she says ‘See?’ ‘See what?’ I say. ‘What happens when you get involved’ she says. I need a cigarette so I walk onto the balcony. Lighting up I inhale deeply and try to look up at the stars.
But they are dimmed by a haze of amber neon and I can’t tell if the pin-pricks of light are stars or planes.
Morning-After Drive to Work
She shakes coke onto my blackberry.
I think about the time I was offered coke at college and replied that I wasn’t thirsty. When a taxi-driver asked if I liked ‘bud’ and I thought he meant Budweiser.
Balancing the blackberry carefully on her knee, she forages in her handbag and pulls out a babies rattle. Taking the edge she manoeuvres the coke in a line. I open the window and light a cigarette. Smoke curls out into London traffic. Teasing wisps of fringe, she coats her lips with gloss and wipes her nose. I spot a light sprinkle on her trousers. ‘Shit’ she says rubbing feverishly. The door opens fluttering embers. Head held high, she strides confidently clutching her security card … .
I spend the rest of the journey staring at the rattle left on the seat. It is red and blue with smiley faces.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Anthony Hitchin is a poetry and prose writer and Guild of Outsider Writers‘ Feature Poet. He has been published /will be published in Zygote in my Coffee, Underground Voices, Decomp, Serious Ink Press (spoken-word CD), Fissure, Geeek, The Gut and many others.
