The invisible courting ritual of a shy-man.

Well I'm not sure if this is the done thing on Hubpages (I haven't been here long) but here is something I have written that I'd like to share. So for anyone who's interested then please read away, I hope you enjoy. It's the start of something i'm writing so sorry that there is no ending yet...But rest assured it will follow. Comments always appreciated. N

The invisible courting ritual of a shy-man.

I

There she went through the busy streets of Camden town, Clarissa Denyo. The object of many a man’s heart. Small in build but built perfectly, seemingly making others seem less well proportioned. Her long dark hair that curled at the ends, would hang down past her shoulders floating briefly as jets of wind brushed through it. Her lips wholesome and full, further defining her quasi-dark Mediterranean features and mahogany brown, doe-eyes.

Her movements were fluid and eloquent that stood out in the machine of London’s rush hour. The busiest time, even for a city that rarely sleeps. She stood out in this place, but not deliberately or out of turn. In this place that is so profoundly urban and alternative it was so refreshing to see, someone who resembled something of such earthly a nature. Machines, smoke, hustle and bustle, crazy people here, or sane people acting crazy there, then this intense natural exquisiteness. That until seeing it you would have thought was nearly extinct or had never existed at all. The dirty city she walked through seemed less tainted and more appealing once she had walked through it. The cold weather England is renowned for would suddenly warm as if a beam of light from the long forgotten sun had broken through the foggy clouds. Only to spotlight Clarissa, so that God could bask in his infallible creation.

“Ahh there she goes” God would say, as if to the world. And there she went, effortlessly through the crowds. The masses of people parting before her, in a seemingly biblical way. Upon catching a glance of her, men suddenly needed more, like feeding a habit of old. Her motion turned to slow motion. Déjà vu? No, this presence was too wonderful and wonder-filled to be forgotten. But unfortunately with beauty, love or desire there is always loss and the ugliness, that the unattainable evokes. So whilst being the object of many a man’s heart she is ironically enough that which fractures them.

Like in many cases where people have power over others in some way, Clarissa was unaware of it and probably would have been hurt to find out she was. A deep-rooted modesty anchored her to the ground leaving her easily flattered but always un-earthed in discomfort. Still, while she suffered in compliment it was many a would-be-suitor whom had suffered trying to become just that, her complimentary other-half. But Clarissa did not believe in love, though this was most probably because she had never actually been enveloped by it. Yes, she hadn’t met the right man, that old over used cliché. But that’s the way it was, the reasoning behind the ‘why?’ was a little more unusual however. But that will all be revealed in good time.

Routine surprises

II

There he wasn’t. Or at least not completely. This was how Thom Hunt would have described himself in his workplace. In a job that required around ten percent of his usual brain functions. Autopilot was on and Thom was walking down the flight deck of his subconscious. All the time still smiling, greeting and serving customers without batting an eyelid. Only ever breaking out of his trance like state two or three times a day when his boss Dean Cardy would routinely swing by. Dean was always red faced and bloated by the anger that his failing marriage had filled him with. Of course this anger needed to be vented and Thom was his obvious target. He was Dean’s only employee in a business that much like his love life had very little turnover.

Thom in theory worked in a mobile, booth-sized coffee shop, under Deans rule. I say in theory because after staying at one of Waterloo Station’s main entrances for the last fifteen years, its mobility had not so suddenly become questionable. He would always say “Thom! Have you checked the filters?”

“Do you always clean the work surfaces?” and

“Have you made sure all the customers know about the two for one on Irish coffees?”

Everyday these questions were barked bitterly at Thom in a taste that was reminiscent of what was being served. Thom would always reply yes to all three questions regardless as to whether he actually had or not. He found Dean’s bitterness amusing and would imagine him actually being made out of coffee. “Dean the coffee bean” he would think, quickly fighting back giggles, as the big bean would be right in front of him. Needless to say it was an unnecessary practice but both had become accustomed to it and neither had much else to say to the other, so it filled the awkward silences.

Thom’s answers did annoy Dean though. Probably because it reminded him how easy his business, that had once been his dream of a burgeoning root to wealth, glory and happiness, was to run. Here was Thom a smart albeit shy young man doing a job that required little and paid even less. But this didn’t matter he had the rest of his life to make things work and catch hold of his dreams. Dean however had peaked on the flat. He’d married young from a relationship that was built on convenience, not love and his friends had been lost to his career in selling average coffee at unreasonable prices.

Thom took any abuse that was thrown at him, he felt sorry for his boss, he was a shadow of a man, mocha a best. And what was worse Dean knew it. His Irish coffee pretty much defined what kind of man he was. The only thing that was Irish about his caffeine full drinks was the way they were poured. It was not mixed with alcohol it was nothing of the Irish coffees that people had so stereotypically come to expect. When the cup was filled to its frothy max Thom had been instructed to leave a three leafed clover in the top imprinted by the last flow from the coffee tap. These infamous Irish coffees as they were loosely named were the thing of legend, not least to the Metropolitan police force. The amount of times Thom had been left to explain why he was serving alcoholic drinks without a licence was embarrassing. This of course all while Dean would scurry off in the opposite direction as fast as his fat little legs could carry him.

But today however and for whatever reason Dean had been absent all day and Tom would nearly be finished. Thom checked his little black and white Mickey Mouse watch. It reads ‘quarter to six’. “Fifteen minutes” Thom said to himself.

“Another uneventful day and the weekend will soon be here…Thank God”. Thom guessed that he served around fifteen customers that day. Most of which were homeless men hoping to get a cheap fix on Irish coffee but instead found themselves inebriated in a caffeine haze, feigning drunk all the same. Thom had felt guilty in his deceit but did not like the alternative of sending them off drunk, without a bed to fall into. The coffee at least he new provided warmth for a while. The rest of the people that day he had forgotten, after awhile people just start looking the same.

Thom removed his coffee-coloured and un-coincidently coffee-covered apron and threw it on the hook behind the door. He then began turning off the various different drink making machines that had hardly been touched that week. “Please can I have a large coffee?” posed a young woman quietly, somehow over powering the background ambiance of the busy commuters behind. A voice that Thom could tell came from someone looking up at him, even though he couldn’t see. “I’m sorry, I’m closing” was Thom’s semi-curt response, not turning in the process more demonstrating with his shoulders. “Ok” sighed the young woman. “Thank you anyway,” she said almost apologetically.

Thom felt warmed by this voice, caught in it some how. He turned slowly and saw a young woman walking away in what seemed like slow motion. He could tell even without looking at her face that she had incomparable beauty. And on further recollection, his memory of her voice only confirmed it. “Wait” he fumbled. “I’d like you to be the last customer of the day”.

Worn wearied and unwelcome.

III

Now for the why?… Why Clarissa is so unable to love. Fine for others but undeniably wrong for her. I said it was an unusual why, didn’t I? Well it is and it isn’t. It’s strange, but logically strange. There is an `A` and a `B`. The first leads to the latter, the first being odd to all and the latter odd only to a few. Evil in origin and Freudian in explanation, in the way that almost all childhood experiences can be dissected.

Clarissa was parentless from the tender age of two. Three weeks after her second birthday to be precise. It was a car crash that claimed the lives of her parents Nadine and Sam. As rare as miracles are they’re most frequently found in tragic circumstances. And as tragic as the loss of those two young parents was, an equally beautiful miracle was born that day. For Clarissa was also in that now broken car. In her mother’s arms she was cradled with all the love in the world. It was maternal love and maternal instinct that saved Clarissa that day and nothing else. Nadine had braced the impact so her daughter wouldn’t have to.