Observation

People watching:

Opposite Liam, Tesco lights glitter dimly in the half-darkness. Hordes of people hurry to their destinations. Their feet are quick- moving like a bunch of tortoises in fast motion. Where he sits, there is an oasis of calm. This place is a bubble of warmth and yellow light and overwhelming scents. With the fresh waft of coffee, his nostrils extend. They gather in the rippling scent. The air reeks of adrenaline and fatigue banished.

‘Sit in or takeout?’ an apron-clad woman enquires tapping bubble-gum nails on the register. He watches as the new customer surreptitiously checks her purse. She is too young to be worried about finances. He would know about that more than anyone. He glimpses the grin on the server’s face as she finishes with the customer. Glimpses as she sneaks off to continue scrolling Insta. He even notices it when her eyes flit around before she removes her heels silently. She is too young to waste life away on frivolities. He feels old despite his youth, wearied by experience and a past buried.

All day, he has been here. This is where he has spent most of his young life. Peeking around corners into people’s lives. People watching since they opened at 6:30. He asks no questions. Unassuming he sits, arm draped around his laptop and an empty takeout cup at his side. It is all for show though. But he is a piece of machinery. The cogs in his head whir and stir up a story for each occupant of the shop. Life is his biggest motivation to write. A reel of the various types rolls through his mind. The brunette at 7:30, clearly a workaholic had frown marks. The odd teenager who had woken up early to study, Her backpack oversized with textbooks. At first, they all had bleary eyes, all groped for their coffees with grasping fingers. Then the 8:00 rush began. All the driven, determined of the world stood delicately in a queue. Each person appears as a servant to their brew. Shame he did not see any of those long enough to come to conclusions. Although the woman with brand names plastered across everything did surprise him with her Scottish accent. Humanity, he mused, there was simply so much of it.

The door clangs its warning and he does not look up. Never stare immediately or people get defensive. It is his sacred rule. So he waits. Like the experienced people person he is. Then he glances up slowly. Nothing prepares him for her. 

Back then, she had been his inspiration. Up front, her heels had clicked against the faded linoleum as her fingers tapped briskly on the whiteboard. She had taught them skills. She had built them personally. All, just by existing. Her very presence commandeered respect and positive energy. 

‘Hi?’ her clear voice carries the hint of a question. It jolts him back to reality.  He should have run, hidden or escaped somewhere before she had time to descend upon him. 

‘Trying to write are you?’ Even in her insecure enquiry, her voice never wavers. Friendly and confident, she makes him ashamed of all he was. All he had become. She had introduced him to writing when he had been that uncommunicative adolescent, confused and alone. She had thrust a pen and paper in front of his snub little nose and instructed him to write anything.

‘I can’t write stories.’ He had muttered

‘You are a story!’ she had whispered back encouragingly.

Consequently, he had written his first piece. He still remembered what it was about- some alien who rescued society. 

Liam attempts a grin back. It is due to her that he followed this trajectory. It is to her credit that he now lives his writing. Suddenly jealousy coats his vision green. She was such a success. A teacher of the highest calibre and yet he could not satisfy her by enumerating his various achievements. No, Liam would go down in her book of failures, ranked somewhere below the high-profile lawyer student and the accomplished artist living in Paris. He had heard it been said, that failure can feel like a bucket of water over fiery dreams. To Liam, her calculating gaze was ice water that froze all articulation. 

Back then, it had been before the world had imploded. Mum and Dad had separated after wrecking the first 10 years of his life. He felt like the shrapnel, so broken by his past but lucky to have survived. Now, he spent his life pursuing a Story. Something to write about so he could make it big and begin to rebuild. 

Guilt clouds his vision, a worm slithering through his veins. He has not done a thing to make her proud. He had just been taught, imbibed and internalised. In reality, though, nothing practical has resulted from that child she had invested so much energy into. Before him, stood his inspiration, ready and expectant and yet he had not one accolade to display.

The armchair scrapes groaning as she pulls it out. From her voluminous bag, she removes it gradually. The paper rustles, whispering across the table. It is blank and begging to be filled. Her smug face tells it all. Confused, he gestures toward his laptop. She puckers her eyebrows in disapproval.

‘New-fangled ideas!’ She tuts, frustrated, ‘Just write.’

Pressure builds in his gut. It rises deep and gasps out in breaths. 

‘B-but I can’t! I tried! I’ve…’ stuttering he fades out as her steady voice overtakes.

‘I am waiting.’ 

He wants to succeed for her, for him. Still, some blockage crowds out the scents and he is a child again. Always in his childhood home. Always the onlooker as Dad and Mum fight and he suffers side effects. The sight comes before him and mars the paper’s perfect linen colour.

It is too white, too bleak and open-ended for his narrow mind. The coffee scent seems to surround him. It closes in. Miss Walker’s foggy breath clouds his airspace. Head tilted to a right angle. She watches. At first, the page slowly fills with a careful script. Then he stops looking up to check she is still there. He does not take any breaks or look around. Liam simply takes his heart and shoves it down onto the canvas awaiting his masterpiece. It comes out with a force and the handwriting is cursive and then smudged. 

Half an hour later, she smiles gently as she slips another fresh sheet on top of its predecessor-ready and waiting. When the initial rush is over, he looks up between sentences. For months, he has sat here in this same spot. For months, he has looked deep into others’ lives for inspiration. He has sought ideas from their struggles or external appearances.

Even now, he spots a child fishing through suspicious wads of £20 notes. Previously he would have half-heartedly jotted it down. It would have been a short note ‘Runaway Child’ perhaps. Now, his gaze is deeper. Liam seeks more; he seeks himself in each customer’s vulnerable moment. 

Costa spins around him. His home away from home is a vortex dragging him back to his childhood. The one he has been avoiding ever since he can remember. Still, he writes rapidly.

‘You are the greatest story.’ The words trip from his brain. They bounce off the grey cells. Her-telling him of his endless potential. He continues writing.

Time flies and all too soon the servers are shooting pointed glances and chairs are being scraped into piles purposefully. Yet he writes on.

‘Time’s up guys!’ a woman with clearly permed hair states gleefully. She is already putting on her jacket and texting ahead that she is on her way to relieve the babysitter.

This place has been his haven for years. The caffeine-stained air has drunk up his enthusiasm for a new idea every day. The mugs are imprinted with his sweaty fingerprints, supportive of his numerous attempts. Why? He questions himself daily almost. Why can he never succeed alone? It takes this to make him write and even this piece is simply his life story. In all its excruciatingly painful detail.

Miss Walker seems to have read his mind. She stretches her palm across the distance bridging past and present as she introduces herself. 

‘Ashley.’ She sticks her hand further into his face. ‘Ashley Walker.’ 

His mouth is propped open by the gasp that enters him. She had not recognised him. She did not know who he was. His embarrassment melds into serious grief and he nearly tears the paper through the center.  His dreams lie in a giant pile. This did not just mean she was not the legendary teacher he remembered. It meant she went around slipping papers before everyone. It had not been particularly him she had believed in. In fact, she had probably laughed at his earnest trust later, sipping her Earl Grey at home. 

Instantly, her puzzled face stops him though.  She appears to be confused by the sudden ice in his muddy eyes. As if on autopilot, his hand traces the small cleft of his knee under the table. It reminds him of his origin. How far he had built himself into the stalwart structure he is now. 

Abruptly, he gets up and drags his arm through the bomber jacket coating his chair. Her arm ruffles her hair in perplexed amusement. He knows he has to explain. He has to give some kind of reasoning for his swift exit. He owes it to Miss Walker, Ashley, whatever she goes by nowadays. He owes it to the walls of this caffeine-fragrant place that witnessed his best and worst moments. He notices the stupidest irrelevant details as he heads toward the entrance. The six, mirrored circles stuck to the wall on the stairs, the chandeliers made of mugs dangling precariously above. He knows in his heart that this is goodbye. The same chairs that had hosted him so comforting in their permanence now seem to wave farewell from their piled-up corner. 

‘I’m Liam, Liam Resney.’ Liam waits for the recognition to flash against her rimless frames. Nothing changes in her rigid gaze. She remains perplexed and the gash in his heart sends out shockwaves. 

‘You made me write my first piece. Remember?’ He throws it grudgingly over his shoulder, already shuffling out. He does not expect her to answer. He expects nothing from her anymore. 

‘No. I won’t pretend I do.’ Her honesty was a cake knife through a gateau. Soft and yet sharp, she pierced him with her deliberate truth. 

‘But that’s ok. You know you. That is all you need.’ Her words are simple in their profundity. ‘Why do you need to look inside others for stories?' Ashley questions.

‘You are a story -living here in Costa for most of your life.’ Her statement is obvious although he has never thought that way. He has been so busy searching for ideas inside others. He has been so busy fleeing from himself. He has taken refuge in the welcoming arms of Costa. Now the only way to snap out is to leave. Leave and never return to this place that built him. 

This place holds so much of him. A giant slice of his heart is carved into the tables. Most of his need to forget is embedded into the wood. Together with his former teacher, he watches as the woman locks the doors with aplomb. She is entirely unaware of the significance this moment holds for him. Jingling them into her pocket, she jogs off into the distance. Soon, Miss Walker does too. Her fading silhouette is outlined against the Costa logo that will flash before him all night.

At home, the shadows of his flat tell deep dark secrets to him and he realises he never needs to return. He does not need to search for stories. Costa and its occupants taught him that.