Friday, 26 June 2015

Appendix Ⅰ: Common Mornings.

In a common morning, his liver carries his mark of love.  His old window is caked with dirt—the vodka by it. The blue, large headphones with its silver pads on his head—his head on his pillow. There are two things on his mind; beautiful music, a beautiful woman.

The grey—always the grey. The beauty of the grey, the sorrow of it. The cajoling gloom of it, the weight of it—a vapour in his veins.

When he wakes up, he puts on his brown coat, brushes his long hair and races down. He had been waiting for her class to end; a class they were both supposed to be in. He opens the large black door—heavy from all the years its wood carries—and peers out. A fat pigeon watches him. Do you think you’d like that one?
That one?
Yes. It’s really fat, he says.  They cross the road, his grey scarf still dangling unadjusted.
Why do you hate fat pigeons?
I love them actually—they’re lovely to squeeze.
...who you love to kiss?

Five years later, on his customary visit to a cathedral nearby, he walks the other way, rather than the way to Victoria Station. The choir of the cathedral—sonorous, soporific—still in his ears like an elegy. He is in a long black coat now—the one he’s known for. His hair is short, flat on his scalp by the rain. He crosses the tiny road again—Thirleby Road—and sits on the pavement. There are no pigeons on the naked winter trees. No beautiful music, no beautiful woman.

The black door opens. A blond comes out and kisses her lover—they part. When she notices a man in a black coat, she attempts to smile and sees the opened flask in his hand—it is just another common morning, with the mark of love, darker in his liver.