second now, half of them would cram themselves into the sandwich shop, the other half in Tesco.
Such was lunch hour.
I paid the weathered-looking old woman behind the counter then took my baguette outside. All right, I’d get hot and uncomfortable again, but that was preferable to being squashed inside among a load of starving people. Turning left, I walked down an alley, making my way to the terrace at the back of the shop. There were a few tables and chairs out there, and this groovy fountain in the middle of the patio that half-heartedly squirted water out of a lion’s mouth at random intervals.
A bit like me, really, that lion. Spurts of happiness and nothing in between.
“Fuck off,” I said, annoying myself.
“That aimed at me, was it?”
I snapped my head up—I’d been staring at the floor again, my usual habit lately to avoid eye contact—and glanced around to see who’d spoken. The terrace only had one person on it apart from me—that wouldn’t last long—and it was some bloke I’d seen a few times before, here and at work. I thought he was in admin, the office down the corridor a bit from the huge room I spent my days in, stuffed inside a cube answering calls from irate customers.
“Err, no.” I gave him a wonky smile—all I could manage—and self-consciously took a seat at the table farthest from him, in the opposite corner beside a terracotta plant pot filled with some flower or other. The blooms spilled over the sides, and I gave them all my attention while unwrapping my baguette from the paper bag.
He was staring at me. I felt the burn of it on my left cheek, experienced the need to get up and walk away. Instead, I remained in place and, angling my body a little so I partially faced away from him, I bit into the bread.
“Taste nice, does it?”
I had no idea what to say to that. His question hadn’t been expected, and anyway, who asked a stranger if their lunch tasted good unless they were a waitress or whatever and were paid to do so? I chewed then swallowed, mulling over whether I’d give him the time of day. Maybe he was like me, lonely and whatnot, and just wanted someone to talk to.
Or maybe he’s like most of the others around here, getting ready to start something. Bring up what happened the other week…
“It’s not bad,” I said.
“Nice sandwiches here.”
What? If he wanted to talk sandwiches, he’d be better off finding someone more inclined to discuss the ins and outs of bread and the various fillings. I wasn’t in the mood for banal chatter.
“Lovely.” I hoped he’d leave it at that.
“Trev, yeah?”
Fuck, he knows my name so he must know about the other week. Great.
“Yes, I’m Trev.” I took another bite and waited for the inevitable.
“The bent bloke, right?”
I finished my mouthful. Sighed. “Yes, the bent bloke.”
“I like bent blokes.”
That was the last thing I’d been expecting, but what if he wasn’t being genuine? Some people had lulled me into a false sense of security, making out I’d be accepted, then switched it round and given me all sorts of crap.
I cleared my throat. “Good for you.” Standard response, that.
“I mean it,” he said.
“I’m sure you do.”
The sound of numerous footsteps clattered down the alley—men in brogues and women in high heels, I guessed—and I waited for the swarm of workers to converge on the terrace. Waited eagerly, to be honest. The patio would be filled with people then, blocking that man’s view, and if I was lucky, I’d be left in peace. Round the corner they came, a sea of faces and bodies, their presence joined by the scrape and whine of chairs being dragged from beneath tables, their voices a big old ball of different tones and pitches.
I let out a sigh of relief, glad to get on with my lunch without feeling so…looked at.
“I’m sure I do too.” The man from admin was standing beside me.
I didn’t look up, kept my focus on the tabletop, although I did sneak a
Such was lunch hour.
I paid the weathered-looking old woman behind the counter then took my baguette outside. All right, I’d get hot and uncomfortable again, but that was preferable to being squashed inside among a load of starving people. Turning left, I walked down an alley, making my way to the terrace at the back of the shop. There were a few tables and chairs out there, and this groovy fountain in the middle of the patio that half-heartedly squirted water out of a lion’s mouth at random intervals.
A bit like me, really, that lion. Spurts of happiness and nothing in between.
“Fuck off,” I said, annoying myself.
“That aimed at me, was it?”
I snapped my head up—I’d been staring at the floor again, my usual habit lately to avoid eye contact—and glanced around to see who’d spoken. The terrace only had one person on it apart from me—that wouldn’t last long—and it was some bloke I’d seen a few times before, here and at work. I thought he was in admin, the office down the corridor a bit from the huge room I spent my days in, stuffed inside a cube answering calls from irate customers.
“Err, no.” I gave him a wonky smile—all I could manage—and self-consciously took a seat at the table farthest from him, in the opposite corner beside a terracotta plant pot filled with some flower or other. The blooms spilled over the sides, and I gave them all my attention while unwrapping my baguette from the paper bag.
He was staring at me. I felt the burn of it on my left cheek, experienced the need to get up and walk away. Instead, I remained in place and, angling my body a little so I partially faced away from him, I bit into the bread.
“Taste nice, does it?”
I had no idea what to say to that. His question hadn’t been expected, and anyway, who asked a stranger if their lunch tasted good unless they were a waitress or whatever and were paid to do so? I chewed then swallowed, mulling over whether I’d give him the time of day. Maybe he was like me, lonely and whatnot, and just wanted someone to talk to.
Or maybe he’s like most of the others around here, getting ready to start something. Bring up what happened the other week…
“It’s not bad,” I said.
“Nice sandwiches here.”
What? If he wanted to talk sandwiches, he’d be better off finding someone more inclined to discuss the ins and outs of bread and the various fillings. I wasn’t in the mood for banal chatter.
“Lovely.” I hoped he’d leave it at that.
“Trev, yeah?”
Fuck, he knows my name so he must know about the other week. Great.
“Yes, I’m Trev.” I took another bite and waited for the inevitable.
“The bent bloke, right?”
I finished my mouthful. Sighed. “Yes, the bent bloke.”
“I like bent blokes.”
That was the last thing I’d been expecting, but what if he wasn’t being genuine? Some people had lulled me into a false sense of security, making out I’d be accepted, then switched it round and given me all sorts of crap.
I cleared my throat. “Good for you.” Standard response, that.
“I mean it,” he said.
“I’m sure you do.”
The sound of numerous footsteps clattered down the alley—men in brogues and women in high heels, I guessed—and I waited for the swarm of workers to converge on the terrace. Waited eagerly, to be honest. The patio would be filled with people then, blocking that man’s view, and if I was lucky, I’d be left in peace. Round the corner they came, a sea of faces and bodies, their presence joined by the scrape and whine of chairs being dragged from beneath tables, their voices a big old ball of different tones and pitches.
I let out a sigh of relief, glad to get on with my lunch without feeling so…looked at.
“I’m sure I do too.” The man from admin was standing beside me.
I didn’t look up, kept my focus on the tabletop, although I did sneak a
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