3
Across A Crowded Room
Their eyes met across a crowded room - a cliché I know, but work with me on this – each reading in the other’s eyes the same thought...”What on earth am I doing in this crowded room, with people I barely know, talking about things that don’t really matter, drinking alcohol I don’t really want, when there’s a whole world out there...”... Their eyes disconnected and they carried on talking to people they barely knew, putting up with the crowded room, talking about things that didn’t really matter and drinking alcohol they didn’t really want.
They both woke up, in different rooms in different houses in different streets, both alone, feeling decidedly the worse for wear physically, and also both feeling as though they had lost something, they weren’t quite sure what, it was a vague feeling, not so much of loss as of missed opportunity. Sunday stretched ahead, in the way that Sunday can do if Saturday night involved alcohol and missed opportunities.
He read last Sunday’s paper, even the holiday pages, drinking cup after cup of coffee, which as an idea wasn’t much better than standing in a crowded room drinking alcohol, so ropey did it make him feel. He pushed the unaligned newspaper to one side, stood up heavily, summoned an ounce of determination, put on his shoes and walked out to see what the world of Sunday had in store for him this week. He pulled the door closed behind him and pulled his coat collar up around his neck. It was November. He strode off down the road towards the corner shop, with the park railings on his right, then realised that he wasn’t up to striding today, so reduced the pace to a stroll, which was better for his hands as they were cold and strolling worked better with hands in pockets anyway. He added ‘nonchalant’ to his internal view of his stroll and started to feel better about things. The sun was doing its best to break through the clouds – he’d get this Sunday’s paper, a sandwich for lunch, or maybe a pasty, a ready-meal for later, and sit in the park for a while.
She made herself get out of bed, out from under the warm duvet, out of the safety of duvet-land, into the real world, though only as far as the bathroom to brush her teeth and get paracetamol, then as far as the kitchen to make a cup of tea and take the paracetamol. Then back to bed, back to the safety of duvet-land, goodbye cruel world for a couple of hours, it’s Sunday and I’ve a hangover...
She made herself get out of bed, out from under the warm duvet, out of the safety of duvet-land, into the real world, into the real world of kitchen to put the kettle on again, back to the bedroom to dress, back to the kitchen to make tea and breakfast. Sausages and beans sounded like a good plan as the hangover was retreating with the aid of the paracetamol and it was nearly lunchtime. Sausages and beans was a very good plan, however she had no sausages and no beans, so she put on her thick woollen cardigan, the one that was almost a coat, the one that her ex hadn’t liked – “It makes you look lumpy, or frumpy, I can’t decide which, maybe both” – and which was now, therefore, her favourite, wrapped a scarf around her neck and ventured out to the corner shop, coping admirably with the noise of traffic, walking with the park railings on her left. Out of the corner of her eye through the railings she noticed a man sitting on the wooden slats of the park bench, coat collar turned up against the November chill, left-over autumn leaves around his left foot, right foot crossed over left knee, carrier bag by his side, reading what must be the Sunday papers. He seemed vaguely familiar, and calming somehow. She walked on towards the shop.
Sausages, beans, skimmed milk and a magazine in her 5p carrier bag, she left the shop with a feeling that things were not as bad as the hangover had made her feel they might be, could be, would be. Walking back towards home with the park railings on her right now, she crossed her internal fingers and ate the Cornish pasty she had bought from the shop’s hot food cabinet in case she decided to sit in the park for a while before she went home to make brunch. She looked through the railings on her right and decided that, yes, she would sit in the park for a while before she went home to make brunch. She walked, strolling rather than striding, without her hands in her pockets, though she wanted to stride, through the park gates towards the park bench. She made that movement of the shoulders and put her head slightly to one side in an “Is this seat taken ? Do you mind if I sit at the other end of this bench with left-over autumn leaves around my feet, like you are, with you ?” sort of way. He made his mouth make that half-smile that just crinkles the corners of the eyes, and seems to suggest “I don’t mind at all, be my guest, and don’t I recognise you from that unpleasant party last night, and by the way, you have Cornish pasty crumbs on the front of your cardigan, which I really like, the cardigan, not the crumbs, though I’m sure the pasty was delicious, and which doesn’t make you look at all lumpy OR frumpy”.... and so it began...