50 Shades of Gallith

50 Shades of Gallith (Part 1)

This damn fucking comb! Everyday I get the desired cobweb look, but never on an important day! And it is quite an important day, well to me it definitely is... not so much to what the others call 'normal.' Today could possibly be my big break and I'm gripped with utter fear, this is just all I have ever dreamt of doing since I was this little bob-haired boy in Crawley. Well, what I plan on doing is nothing anyone in Crawley would even speak of casually... it's so bland and singular that I'm made a fool of for wanting to be a musician. I stare at the little mirror in front, still contemplating whether or not to wear my usual lip and black circles around these ridiculous pools known as my eyes. I plan on being "as natural as I can," as per what the guy said, so I guess I will then. I put on the smudgy red lipstick, perhaps looking like you got into a pub fight isn't the way to go ya' wanker! My subconscious growls at my stupidity... ok maybe just the lipstick then. I take a step back to review myself; black and white sneakers, tight blue fading jeans, stretched and oversized black jumper, red lipstick that is over lined more than a kid in a colouring book and black backcombed hair that is flooding with tendrils. Thats pretty much my good-to-go, but I just need that last drag before I make an arse of myself. I'm so incredibly nervous that I'm walking instead of driving, my abilities to act like the norm is hard enough when I'm sober or relaxed. The thought of this fella, Simon, is starting to make my legs turn to the reverse cycle of bloody jelly. I can't remember his face, pub lights are so damn dim and there's always shit getting on the papers in the filthy place that you're mistaken for personal blindness. He seems to be a professional on a bass and sometimes his way of words, so hopefully these lyrics I have so cleverly brought along can shed some light on the shattered lightbulb that is my brain. My subconscious is whipping out a comb like it's Clint Eastwood's firearm and stroking his hair with the utmost sarcasm on his face, it won't get the best of me.

I guess the good thing about Crawley is that there is still plenty of places to go where it's quite and isolated... my preferred style anyway. I finally reach the place, coincidence that a young British mate meets you at a pub, a relatively quiet and elderly drunk-free too... very rare. I stand stuck in the entrance doorway... now your stuff will have this fellow interested thanks sub, I needed you an hour ago! I walk slowly in, and I get two men and a woman stare at me... Georgian men wore make-up for masculinity! Well perhaps this Simon guy won't like the attire, I wipe it off with my sleeve as best as I can in hope that it's all gone from my now naked lips. Now I forgot what the guy looked like and I'm just honestly looking around for a young looking man. I see a young guy, but it's a teen with the classic 'fake ID" and my conscience laughs at my own young tricks. But clearly not the one I'm looking for, until I see a figure in the back if a corner stall... hmm shall we? I shuffle my notes back into my trembling hands... and then it hits me. Bingo! Dead ringer of a young fellow and his face is now again implanted into my brain, yet I choose to stand quite still.

"Afternoon, " his voice is considerably deep and complimented with the wit of the English accent. It's an instant wave of intensity that leaves my feet stationary,

"... not allergic to chairs I hope mate." An awkward laugh is inaudibly made from my throat and I slowly sit myself down to the neighbouring chair.

My subconscious is the same as me, but with eyes as big as a full moon and catching me off guard. He sounds like business, but his look tells a huge fuck off attitude towards business. He too has black hair that spikes and drapes over his forehead, the tendrils standing up like the trees in a palace. His punk leather jacket and biker boots still suggest his no nonsense attitude, my sub gapping his mouth open in shock. "Well it is good to see you again in person, I'm hopefully this conversation can lead us to a future... together," the way he expressed a simple sentence sent the strangest feeling in my stomach. I nervously tuck my worthless tendrils of hair behind my ears, he sits back into his chair and observes me. His burning eyes staring at my fingers, which turns my anxiety on full blast and has my hands running for cover inside the rim of my jumper... well this will be interesting. My morning practices of speeches I was preparing for this flies away high as a kite and no one can reach that far. I let out another nervous laugh from inside my throat and slide my amateur looking notes to him, he stills says nothing. His Spiderman eyes leave mine and skim through the pile of tackered pieces and hearing the occasional laugh from his nose, my mind is so stuck. Say something you hopeless bastard! Is all my conscience can offer. "It may seem like I am an angst filled human letting out the so-called steam, but it's more random words that I feel go so good together, and I'd give the opportunity to put this into music in order to-" I can't help but suddenly notice that his stare is way too intense as he pushes his way into me to cut in. "- I notice that you're, or were, wearing lipstick." I knew I didn't take it off properly, he points down to my sleeve and I see the marks that my damn 'talents' have left, and he fingers his mouth area. I touch my lips with the fingertips that were on close guard and I see added shades of red on them... I feel so embarrassed.