Good Morning

The thirty fifth instalment of “From the Booth”, my Weekly Story Subscription Service (!”$)

All that was left were some bits and pieces and some other stuff. Nothing enough to catapult you back underneath the golden arch that had held firm above you for the longest time in living memory. And you’d cracked your knuckles and yawned and swanned about in your chair. Like the golden arch would be over your head as long as the carpet was under your shoes. There and always there and not worth celebrating just because.

When the daylight swarmed in, you were still underneath an arch. You always are. But it wasn’t made from wedding cake icing anymore. And without the all important gold leaf. Instead was some kind of chicken wire. Crepe paper. You could see the clouds through it, let’s put it that way. I wish I couldn’t see the clouds through it, you thought.

A few hours earlier, somebody had been talking to you about the darts. About how it was attracting the wrong type of person. Obviously it’s intended to be a good time. And a cracking great day out. One of the best days out you’ll ever have. But these idiots treated the whole thing like one big joke. Funny placards, you name it. It was a fine line, of course. Because some of the placards genuinely were funny.

Off and on you’d broached other topics but nothing else seemed to spark with them. In fact it was as though they couldn't hear what you were saying at all. What were you saying, out of interest? At one point you asked them if they’d noticed that ring pulls had changed over the years. Because you weren’t sure if they had. But they ploughed on about the darts. They’d been a fan for years now. Certainly a whole lot longer than some of these interlopers. Who bought up all the tickets. And spoilt it for everyone.

And it had felt to you as though they were behind a glass partition as they spoke. On your side of the partition were drops of light that hung in the air. Their side was not known to you. The partition flickered in windchime bursts.

And their passion made you smile inside yourself. And at times you’d looked round, like, Have you heard this guy? But there was no-one there.

‘I like darts,’ you’d said. ‘Because anyone can do it.’

And the person laughed at this. And touched your arm. And you’d laughed with them. Also for your own reasons.

Now the sun was up and behind the clouds. Someone, not you, went to close the curtains. There was a groundswell of disapproval, which surprised them. Surprised the whole sitting room, if you must know. And they decommissioned themselves. Leaving the curtains in peace.

And in the corridor you’d stood and stood and stood. Between the kitchen and the sitting room. There was no need to commit to either. And from your standing position you could see down the length of the corridor into the kitchen and out of the kitchen window and into the back garden. And behind that a sliver of the high street. And cars were there. Starting and stopping again.

And you wanted to call everybody into the corridor and say, ‘Listen, why don’t we..?’ And then point magnetic north towards the glowing postage stamp of the kitchen window. ‘Listen, guys. Why don’t we just..?’

And it was as much satisfaction to imagine doing it as it would have been to do it. Or a different amount entirely.

But here’s the thing, there were still cans in the fridge. Thousands. You had brought five. And opened many more than five. They could not be closed again. This was their great failing.

And back in the sitting room, someone asked you what your go-to doodle was. And you told them, ‘I like to draw impossible triangles.’ And they fetched an envelope and a biro. And you made a mess of your attempt. But they said, ‘Oh, cool,’ anyway. And you said, ‘Watch this.’ And drew a normal triangle. Which came out perfectly, if you don’t mind yourself saying so.

And as a child you’d drawn a heart shape in the condensation on a bus window. And a man behind you tapped you on the shoulder, and asked, ‘What’s that you’ve drawn?’ And you said, ‘A triangle.’

And you told this story to the room. And one of the figures in the room said, ‘Why?’ And another answered for you. ‘Because he didn’t want to say it was a heart.’ And the first voice said, ‘But why not?’

And on the bus had been the first time you’d felt your face turn red. And the man had said, ‘Is it a flower?’ And you’d got off a stop early and been late home.

‘It’s good,’ you said. ‘To be in the morning light.’

After you said this, about the morning light, somebody said, ‘Yes.’ The same person who was bellyaching about the darts, all those few hours ago. Their face in full colour.

Oh, you thought. They are a brave person. I hadn’t realised before. They have courage in life. If they glance at me again, I will also know them to be an honourable person.