For the purposes of this post I should probably change the name of this blog to David in the kitchen but doing a bit more than just cooking.
I’ve been taking a creative writing course recently through our local adult education scheme and for one of the recent sessions we were asked to write a short piece, 500 words maximum, to share with the group and then for us all to feedback on each others work. The session was open to any type of writing that we wanted and I took the opportunity to have a go at something that wasn’t food related.
As with everything else at the moment the coronavirus outbreak has brought the writing course to a sudden end and if any of my fellow students or our tutor are reading this I’d like to take the opportunity to wish them well and to hope they stay safe over the coming weeks.
The piece I shared with the group is below
Most days he’d spend the journey with his head in a book, other times he’d stare out of the window and just let his mind wander. What he’d never done before was take any notice of his traveling companions. Yes there were faces that registered. A mumbled “morning” as they waited in the queue. An obligatory grumble and eye roll when the bus was late or on some days didn’t even turn up at all. Other than that he found the way to get through the daily commute was to make it his time and his space. Social interaction could wait until later in the day.
It was the girl with the broken mirror who’d changed things. Suddenly the book didn’t feel quite so important anymore and what little view there was through the grimy windows was even less appealing than it had been. He’d first noticed her a few weeks ago, sat on her own, three rows in front of him. Sat staring intently into a cracked and broken mirror that she held in one hand whilst with the other she delicately applied makeup. The mirror was so damaged it looked as if the shards might fall out if tipped the wrong way. The makeup application so precise it was clear the fragmented image didn’t seem to bother her at all. How was she managing to do that.
The bus seldom stopped before where he got off but that day it did. Somehow he knew it was going to be for her. She never looked back as she walked down the bus and never looked round as she got off. He probably could have looked over his shoulder and tried to catch a glimpse of her as the bus pulled away, but something stopped him.
He didn’t think anything more about it that day but the next morning she was there again in the same seat. Had she been in the queue with him, had she jumped on at another stop. He didn’t know and wasn’t sure that he wanted to.
After that her morning ritual became part of his. He got to know where they should be on the journey when the eye liner came out, how long there was to go when the blusher was applied. Every day the end of the ritual was the same. She got up and walked away and he never got to see her face. Never got to see the image she’d created using her broken mirror.
It’s a long time now since he sat on that bus but he still wonders what the girl with the cracked mirror looks like.
David in the kitchen. 