Fringe Review: In Edinburgh They Kiss on George Street By Lyn Gardenia

Jaded to a permanent world view of mediocrity that hasn’t shifted in years, I sit here in this cafe with coffee. Warm and worn to this world, alone in it.

The rain drifts against the sodium outside, and the whoosh of taxis take the festivals twirlers to a place brighter than this George Street, to a laughter filled hocus pocus perhaps. Oh well, not me anymore. Do I care?

Then I see her, the young girl, across the road, thin and wet, the side stepping dance of the ska rhythms of the long wait. I did her very thing in my golden era of court and spark. It was many years ago and quite a time. I can tell you these things all night, or tell anyone else who can be bothered to listen.

Then he comes to her, fleet and foot soaked. Running as if escaping a raid, a man of Sasquatch proportions, brown coated, bedraggled. He was always was going to make it I suppose. The sepia of the moment demands his greeting.

They stand two or three feet apart for a while. Negotiating distance with the timing of a soft boiled egg. She pulls him towards her and the luxury of a kiss ensues. The rain thickens and sweeps the moment to a new intensity. A taxi stops and they are gone forever.

The finest performance I have seen this year. Devised and directed with heart. I smile desperately at the waiter as he refills my cup.

*****