And here is the long-awaited part 2 of the latest short story I've been working on. I know...I'm working at a glacial speed. Don't know what's going on? Read the previous installment here.
He looked up sharply as he heard a bird take off in a hurry. A woman shrieked unnecessarily as it did, at least three metres away from her. ‘Little twit.’ He said out loud, almost hoping she could hear. He watched the pigeon fly off and settle on a metal bar in the rafters of the station. Poor bloody creature. Most of the time it’s ignored until it accidentally flies too close to a churlish mid 40’s divorcee, who is consequently repulsed by it.
Andrew had always been fond of birds and Pigeons happened to be his favourite. Pigeons had a bad rep, but he was inclined to think that they weren’t much different to any other feathered creature. Sure it looked a little rough around the edges and it probably wasn’t the cleanest winged specimen, but that’s why he liked them. The choice he made when he was six years old – when his mother (who he severely disliked) swatted and clubbed a pigeon to death in their small kitchen in Somerset because it had ‘broken into the house’ - was almost a protest. Sure, Robins were friendly, chubby and more aesthetically pleasing, but pigeons were like mavericks. The odd ball’s choice. He picked up his trainers and squeezed them in to his rucksack.
He stopped at Neal’s coffee shop just before he got to the office. Starbuck’s and Costa were to be avoided. He had an amiable relationship with most guys in the office, but at this time in the morning conversation was unwarranted. Before 10am, Andy’s brain was still digesting all those difficult thoughts and problems built up from a nightmare-filled sleep, and then worst still; actually waking up. All that bad noise in his head made him feel light-headed and queasy. So an involuntary discussion with Kevin about his latest drug fuelled bonk with a stripper would not help the caffeine and jam glazed pastry go down. Going to Neal’s was one more act of self-preservation. It made his life that little bit more bearable.
‘Andy’ Oh God who the hell was that and why are they in MY fucking coffee spot. He turned his head timidly, bracing a forced smile in preparation for this regrettable morning chat.
‘Oh, Si.’ It was only Simon Hiles, the mag’s Creative Art Director. A decent chap that Andy wished he could call a ‘mate’, but didn’t. In fact it had been Simon that had suggested this coffee haunt when he’d complained that Starbuck’s was overcrowded with arse-licking employees with desperate hopes of promotion. But he hadn’t seen Si in here for weeks now.
‘Where have you been getting your coffee from of late?’ Andy was surprised by his own sprightly tone.
‘Oh, I’ve given it up… Caffeine. It was giving me heart problems.’
‘Oh shit. What do you do for kicks now then?’ They both sort of smirked at the half-joke Andy had made.
‘Well I’m still on the medicinal heroin and crystal meth, so I think I’ll be alright.’ They laughed more enthusiastically this time.
‘So why are you in here then? Oh god you’ve not gone decaf or worse... herbal?’
‘Oh it’s not for me, I’m just getting one for Mike… my partner.’ Si motioned to a table in the corner of the café, where a young man was reading the newspaper and removing his jacket.
‘Oh…’ Shit. This is awkward. Andy knew Si was gay. Everyone in the office was aware of it. But as much as Si had tried to get everyone else to be comfortable with it, they weren’t…
Andy gripped the brolley in his left hand tighter and tighter as he forced himself to raise his right hand in a sort of embarrassed wave in Mike’s direction. Then he realised it looked like an apology, so he made the effort to bend his fingers downwards in one jittery motion. Now he'd made a 'Coo-eee' gesture. He guessed that Mike would assume that Andy was another homophobic arsehole from the magazine.
‘So I guess I’ll see you back in the office in a little while.’
‘Mmmm.’ Was all Andy could muster as he gulped down a foamy cappuccino in order to stop himself from saying something inadvertently offensive. He waved a little more convincingly this time as he sailed out of the door and into the downpour which he’d momentarily forgot about. Fat droplets splashed into his uncapped coffee and he stood there looking up into the grizzly sky and enjoyed an indulgent moment of self-loathing.
That was one of his Andy's other hobbies; apart from habitually lying to his wife and drinking too much coffee, he got some sort of sick pleasure from abusing his own psyche. It was a purification process which reminded him that just because he was the editor of well-established publication and was well respected (feared) by his peers and his wife, he was still as flawed, if not more so than, any other human being.
