Coffee Guy (on-hold)

4

.04.

I've spent longer than usual reading The Three Musketeers. Took me a whole night instead of half the night.

After I departed the cafe at around 7 o'clock in the evening, I ambled down to the underground station, took the District line home, staring blankly at my window reflection in the tube. I then trudged to my house, Lana Del Rey blaring in my headphones. I almost felt as if I was a truly depressed teenager, except I wasn't a teenager anymore.

Mum was upset I was late for dinner; she likes to bring our small family together at dinnertime. Dad works morning to night at the construction site, whilst Mum teaches at a local primary school.

And I?

I guess at the moment I am living off my parents for as long as I can until the day I can afford to live on my own. It's difficult to work as a university student, although I have always wished to work at a museum, especially at the Natural History Museum.

When I used to be a little girl, Dad liked buying the latest issues of magazines with gems and stones as a gift. I would line them along my dressing table, admiring them until I turned sixteen years old. Dad would also take me to the Science Museum next to the Natural History Museum, telling me stories about each exponent and emphasising the importance of science and geology.

My poor father spent hundreds of pounds, guiding me towards the path of geology and science, not realising that by taking me to museums he has been raising an artist.

But what is so undesirable and regrettable in being an artist? Artist sees through the facade and walls, and the artist is capable of analysing what's before him in more depth than any other person can. Being an artist means you can see the beauty in the complete range of hues and colours. Scientists can, too, however, there is something marvelous, historic in artistry.

I wonder what course Thomas is taking at his university, I assume it's something to do with mathematics or IT, in his case I can't use my vibe-determiner efficiently.

I place the book on the bedside table and lock my hands under my neck, staring at the ceiling. The light of the morning sun pours through my tiny window, painting my room in gold, its bands stretch along the ceiling and reflect off the mirrors, leaving dancing sunbeams on the cream walls.

Cars make their way through the neighbourhood past our house, and I could just hear through the opened window people running by the heavy footsteps and erratic breathing. Birds chirping in the background aid me in arranging my thoughts on the shelves of my mind.

Why would someone like Thomas like The Three Musketeers? Why would anyone like it in the first place?

Thomas is an interesting guy, indeed. It's not the first time I have seen baristas read, but it's my first time seeing a guy read this book. Young people nowadays tend to read classics, more contemporary literature.

The book itself is a tale of adventures. Exciting. Gripping. Humorous. Remarkable.

It narrates a tale of loyalty, friendship and bravery. There is no 'true love' soap opera, this book is what I'd call - a book to experience a second-hand adventure you wouldn't ever experience in the modern days.

Certainly, no steaming-handsome musketeers who fearlessly save poor ladies out of evil troubles.

Opening the pages, which I flagged up by folding their corners, I stroke my fingers over the rough paper, tracing the pencil marks he left on the pages. The question marks. The braces that enveloped paragraphs with the author's thoughts. The underlined sentences.