![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
He had a haggard face, straight short hair, stocky build, not tall but he loomed a little over his pint of dark beer. He had usurped our usual table for a few weeks now, every Thursday night in the same dark wool sweater and quiet air. He never had company.
I watched him from my new window seat whenever I could not participate in my friends' conversation. Perhaps he was newly deposited here from some distant, cod-less shore. Perhaps he was released from a newly created ghost town, lost to a dwindling forest. Perhaps there was still crude oil staining his fingers. He wore a wedding band, silver, on his right hand.
Some weeks I wished it were not so uncertain to receive a warm reception from him, so that I might at least reclaim our table. But I like my window seat, so I didn't mind, really.
On Wednesdays, while the sun still shines golden in the afternoon hours, I go to the common room in the mathematics building. It is the only place near my residence with windows large enough to let the sunlight slant in across the room, and it is by far the best place to watch the sun set. It's usually not too hard to avoid the locals, though I usually find myself sneaking down the corridors anyway. On one such evening, I found the common room occupied by two people, one whom I recognized as my calculus professor from several years ago. The other I guessed was a student.
"You'll want the Griffiths for sure," said the professor to the student. "But I'm sure Valerie wouldn't mind you sitting in her lecture, if you let her know beforehand."
The student thanked him, and shuffled away. I winced at the scuffing of runners against wood, and this wince gave my presence away.
He smiled at me. "Good sunsets here, you know," he said.
"Yes," I said.
"Well, don't let me distract you from your ritual. I'll only be here for a few minutes longer." He shuffled his papers, took a sip from his mug, and poked at his laptop. Whatever he was drinking smelled of heavy spice and ginger. It lingered for a little while after he had swept up his things and left, the air sweet and rough in my throat until the sky was velvet blue.
The next day I was timidly peering through the only tea shop I knew, which was on a street full of interesting little shops and pubs and places to eat. I saw that man come into the shop, firmly jangling the door chime, pacing down the shelves, stopping with his hands in his pockets in front of a selection of herbal teas. I spied a determinatedly Christmassy corner of the shop, and followed my nose there. I was delighting in a stash of spiced teas when he said, "Excuse me."
"Agh," I said.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. Could you be so good as to pass me a box of chai?"
I would have liked to speak with him, but there was nothing to say, so I passed him a box and he thanked me and left.
That night, and for a few weeks thereafter, a woman sat at that table in the pub. She had a sharp face softened by long curls, which were all up in a messy bun, and she sipped at a dark beer while tapping on a tablet. I haven't seen that man again.
I watched him from my new window seat whenever I could not participate in my friends' conversation. Perhaps he was newly deposited here from some distant, cod-less shore. Perhaps he was released from a newly created ghost town, lost to a dwindling forest. Perhaps there was still crude oil staining his fingers. He wore a wedding band, silver, on his right hand.
Some weeks I wished it were not so uncertain to receive a warm reception from him, so that I might at least reclaim our table. But I like my window seat, so I didn't mind, really.
On Wednesdays, while the sun still shines golden in the afternoon hours, I go to the common room in the mathematics building. It is the only place near my residence with windows large enough to let the sunlight slant in across the room, and it is by far the best place to watch the sun set. It's usually not too hard to avoid the locals, though I usually find myself sneaking down the corridors anyway. On one such evening, I found the common room occupied by two people, one whom I recognized as my calculus professor from several years ago. The other I guessed was a student.
"You'll want the Griffiths for sure," said the professor to the student. "But I'm sure Valerie wouldn't mind you sitting in her lecture, if you let her know beforehand."
The student thanked him, and shuffled away. I winced at the scuffing of runners against wood, and this wince gave my presence away.
He smiled at me. "Good sunsets here, you know," he said.
"Yes," I said.
"Well, don't let me distract you from your ritual. I'll only be here for a few minutes longer." He shuffled his papers, took a sip from his mug, and poked at his laptop. Whatever he was drinking smelled of heavy spice and ginger. It lingered for a little while after he had swept up his things and left, the air sweet and rough in my throat until the sky was velvet blue.
The next day I was timidly peering through the only tea shop I knew, which was on a street full of interesting little shops and pubs and places to eat. I saw that man come into the shop, firmly jangling the door chime, pacing down the shelves, stopping with his hands in his pockets in front of a selection of herbal teas. I spied a determinatedly Christmassy corner of the shop, and followed my nose there. I was delighting in a stash of spiced teas when he said, "Excuse me."
"Agh," I said.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. Could you be so good as to pass me a box of chai?"
I would have liked to speak with him, but there was nothing to say, so I passed him a box and he thanked me and left.
That night, and for a few weeks thereafter, a woman sat at that table in the pub. She had a sharp face softened by long curls, which were all up in a messy bun, and she sipped at a dark beer while tapping on a tablet. I haven't seen that man again.
