Tuesday, 26 January 2016

The Cello - The Archive Backlog 8

forty-second


There are two.

They do not look like a couple.

He is dressed casually; white cotton shirt and blue jeans. He is clean-shaven, handsome; his eyes sparkle as he leans through the window and says hello.

He does not look like a cook.

She is dressed casually smart;  an orange floral print dress, tight around the waist so you can see her curves and she is wearing wedges that give her height.

She too is smiling.

But she is also laughing.

She does not look like a waitress.

There are three tables on the pavement and a fourth at one end on the other side of the entrance.
On this table there are coloured pencils and a pile of paper, some coloured.

At this table a young boy sits. Sometimes he colours, sometimes he goes across the street and pulls faces, his fingers stretching the corners of his mouth.

He does not look like a customer.

Probably isn’t.

Inside there is another table, as big as the room in which it stands but this table is empty.

On the wall there is a framed picture, a person sitting playing the cello.

The picture is abstract, formed with simple paint strokes and torn pieces of newspaper.


This place does not look like a restaurant.

The Archive Backlog


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