My favourite weather is overcast; the sensation of casual fascination and unstipulated terror, the massage therapist not holding a pillow terminally over your face, the bus passenger not stabbing his key into your eye as he walks past your aisle seat, the approaching driver not mounting the pavement and breaking your spine, the government not secretly poisoning the water supply to supress your resistance, the view of your old flat not being blocked by the extension of the supermarket, the party dress you’re not wearing to clean the bathroom.
There is a man I see as I am walking to work. He is middle-aged, dark haired, and carries his backpack over one shoulder, always his right. He is a rather portly gentleman and he walks at pace, he reminds me of one of my Uncles, should he have been portly and fast at walking. The frightening general disparity of lifeforms which occupy a metre of pavement and do not interact is molested and exaggerated as we pass in the street. We share the scent of the fruit stall, and the coffee shop; the beige undertones of the charity shop front window, and the shelter of awnings when it is raining. I do not know the colour of his eyes, but I fancy them to be brown, or perhaps green, a shimmering of blue, or spliced with hazel. He wears black trainers which accentuate his large form into a mass of darkness as he makes haste on the street, the red streak in my hair serving as the only hint of colour in the otherwise bleakness of our encounter. He wears the same jacket, never fully closed on account of his weight, in both rain and sunshine, and as we pass each other I can see a black shirt tucked into black trousers, partially concealed beneath his coat’s exterior. Continue reading “The Middle Man”