Tales From The Tower

 

1

 

He’s very concious of sitting with his back to the door, but the place is so full the only free space is a stool at the bar and this is where he sits, cradling his first beer for another long night.

 

He’s tried other places. But the thin cosmetic and gin atmosphere of the chic bistros just depresses him so he seeks out the sodden sidestreet silos with rough hewn floors and scuffed furniture and ‘real�?people. It’s a risk coming here, he knows that. These guys are out to drink and laugh and argue and fight and he’s different. He can feel the stares and the mistrust and when he takes out his pad to make notes he’s pretty sure he’s the only poet for a million miles.

 

He’s not an ugly man. His boyish grin, his sharp blue eyes and the sprinkling of gray in his full brown hair attracts women regularly and his quiet, unassuming manner means he’s easily liked once spoken to. His accent still gives him away of course. After twenty odd years of speaking this butting, jarring language he still carries the sing song lilt of his home valley and this is a cause of amusement to some and a reason for dislike in others.

 

He lives with it.

 

The barmaid is a forty something faded, jaded blonde and she’s wearing a short, short black and white kilt and knee high boots over fishnet tights. Her name is Melanie and has her work cut out for her when too large boys in peaked caps and camouflage jackets enter and push their way to the front of the bar. They look like hunters but it’s not ducks they’re after tonight. But she’s very good with the sexist, proletariat banter and soon has them laughing and she looks at him now and again and he smiles and nods his approval at the way she’s handling the situation and she smiles back, relieved, grateful to have an ally that perhaps understands how much she hates putting herself on show like this, although he still enjoys the view of the fine white hairs on her spine when she bends for the ice, thinking to himself that he’s just like the hunters, only worse because she trusts him a little and it takes him a lot of effort not to abuse that trust. Melanie is very attentive and brings him beer after beer before he can finish the one he already has.

 

By four o’clock in the morning he’s about to fall in love with her again, and he knows she wants him to walk her home and he knows she’ll invite him in for coffee and he knows he can have her if he wants. But it’s not right.

 

She’s not the one.

 

He takes a long, slow walk home alone, relishing the cold January rain and the half smiling moon.

 

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