Coffee Guy (on-hold)

5

.05.

I don't fully understand how I managed to get myself together, but somehow I pulled on some clean and pressed clothes, put some lip balm on, and I even ran a brush through my curls, separating the tightened locks.

Overall, I represented Hagrid with the same puffy hair and unruly appearance.

Leaning the side of my forehead onto the icy-cold window of the bus, I type in a text message to Erin. I need her sober perspective on this whole situation with Thomas because I feel that I am drowning in this sweet pool of hopes and imagined love so deep that at some point I might start vomiting rainbows and candies.

Erin is always clear with her judgment and opinion, and in our friendship, she is the person who would tell you if your hair looked awful or your eyeliner was too thick, whilst I was the one who would compliment looks just to boost someone's confidence.

Sometimes I wonder what Erin and I would be if we were fonts on a Word Document. My friend would definitely be a newspaper article typed sensibly in Times New Roman, whilst I would be Segoe Script written in swirls on a coffee-stained paper.

It is bizarre to compare ourselves to objects or phenomenons, but isn't it wonderful to represent natural occurrences such as storms or calm waters? Isn't it beautiful to remind someone of poetry? When someone thinks of you as a grainy Polaroid photograph?

The bus stop where I need to get off is nearly there, so I press the red stop button, gripping the pole, and make my way downstairs.

Ambling down the Tower Bridge Road, I plug earphones into my ears and choose yet another melancholic Lana Del Rey song.

People rush by, dressed in office clothes, gray-white-black, possibly hurrying to the underground and then home. I can't help but follow with my eyes lean women in immaculate suits that hug at their curves. The heels of their polished shoes click as they gracefully glide through the crowd of other working people.

Men in suits, men in jeans; women in suits, women in jeans.

Where are all of them going? Are they going home to their families? Are they going home to their partners? Or perhaps an empty house.

I am different because I am an artist surrounded by office robots in the working district. But I still find them beautiful, no matter how deeply immersed they are in their routine.

And this city, London, is made of concrete and brick. The streets are paved with cobblestone, and streetlights line the narrow lanes. When I look around, everything is a palette of taupe and spruce, burgundy and dirty-white.

The sun is hidden behind the concrete jungles, only wisps of pastel-blue could be seen on the visible patches of the clear sky. The air is filled with the aftermath of numerous transports that operate in London. My ears are stupefied by the music in my earphones, but even over the playing song I could hear cars honking, tires rolling on the asphalt, people chattering.

I think I might go mad.

♨︎

Thomas is sitting on the embankment's barrier, his legs dangling. He is dressed casually, white sneakers, dark trousers and a charcoal knee-length coat. I can't believe he is wearing a coat, too.

My head gets cloudy with Thomas. I mentally analyse his outfit, his sitting position just like Sherlock Holmes does. Thomas is such a natural at what he likes, what interests he pursues, what books he reads because when I try to read him, there is no writing in-between the lines, it's just pure text that you either read or don't read.