the piano player

The bus is due, and I’m leaning against the shelter with a cigarette in one hand and my sketchbook in the other. I congratulate myself for finding a snug pair of fur trim gloves in Oxfam earlier, one of which is shielding my left hand from the evening chill while my right nurses the obligatory Mayfair. The streets are grey, clasped inside winter’s steely glove, and I curse myself again for writing off my car. Red wine always leads to disarray where I’m concerned.

There’s on old lady inside the plastic bus shelter with an abundance of bags attached to her wheelie trolley. Its one of those tartan ones, a staple for over seventies as Topshop plimsolls are for teenage girls. Her withered feet are encased in open toe sandals, despite the decent of winter. She’s sitting as far away as possible on the grubby plastic bench from an old, bedraggled looking chap; he looks like a crushed can of special brew. A determined beard runs haywire over a gnarled face, like moss attacking an aged oak tree, and his persistent cough is a chainsaw being taken to the trunk.

I stand with my back to them. I’m thinking about a mushroom omelette ill make when I when I get home, a cup of coffee when I get in the door, and then some sketching. Portraiture. Who will I invite round? I haven’t had a model in a while; most of my work has been of myself of late. It’s more difficult without the car.

As I inwardly upload my mental phonebook, I notice a familiar figure gambolling up the street. I recognise the silhouette formed from skinny jeans, a tailored blazer, hair stringently coiffed into a neat Jerry Lee Lewis quiff. I know that beneath that quiff sits a face of high cheekbones and an arrogant pout, eyes like Bombay Sapphire. Inside me, something shifts.

I remember when the boy with that same gait used to amble into my matchbox kitchen and kiss me on the neck while I made us spaghetti, used to pin me against the wall and drag me to my bed and the pasta wouldn’t be al dente the way I like it by the time we had finished. For two years, we would fold into each others arms, Dylan on the vinyl player and a bowl of olives between us. Joss sticks mingled with the sickly smell of sex, the pleasant feeling of being immersed in sweaty skin under a king size duvet on a single divan.

I don’t know why my heart beats more quickly as he approaches. It was me that cheated. It’s been almost a year now. Suddenly, I’m glad of the previously unwanted curtain of darkness that begins to cloak me.

He glances at me without smiling and continues to walk, his strong, self conscious stride. I always used to admire the slender shape of him from behind. Now I’m transfixed and I want to call after him, but all I can do is take a final drag of my cigarette and wonder what regret will look like in oil paints.