Table for One

The Premier Inn in Saffron Walden seems quite new. A new hotel, attached to a new Beefeater restaurant, in a new development, in a very old market town. A “market town since 1141” according to the sign on the road. The excitement of being in a new place, the potential of, for just a few hours, being a new person.
When in fact, by the time check-in is completed and a beer is bought & paid for, the same slightly overweight, balding, middle-aged man sits on his own at a table for one and feels just a bit lonely.
The overly enthusiastic young barman, with too many smiles and too many “I hope you enjoy it!”‘s just makes one feel tired. And then mean, for thinking such uncharitable thoughts.
A book, constant checking of the phone for twitter updates / texts from her left behind. Time passes slowly but the beer goes down quickly. “Be careful” I think, “it’s not even 5 o’clock yet”.
Making plans for the evening meal, and seeing the slightly sympathetic look in the eye of the lady when responding to the question “a table for how many?” with “Oh, just me…”.

Sitting at a table for two, on my own, but excluding myself from the world around me with a book. Reading at the table may be frowned upon, but I’d rather that than stare listlessly at the middle-aged couple across the way who have literally nothing to say to each other and instead gaze dead-stared off into the middle distance, thinking wistfully of the days when life was fun, and regretting their life choices… or maybe they’re just wishing they had chosen the steak instead of the fish.

It’s food as fuel for now, not the joyful experience of sharing food with a loved one, commenting on good and bad. Wondering what the serving staff are thinking about the man on his own and whether or not they would pass comment if I ordered a whole bottle of wine and just one glass. Then realising I don’t actually care what they think. It’s a one night stay and I will never see them again, so red is ordered and yes, just the one glass, thanks.

Snapshot 7

I want to find a door, a door that no one has opened.
It will be hidden behind leaves of the deepest, truest green, through which the sun cannot penetrate.
Old, weathered, warped by years of neglect.
Written on the door will be the words “for you”, and I will know that it doesn’t mean for me, but in fact for you.
So I will bring you to that door. Hand in hand, we’ll walk toward it and I will admonish you to be careful, to be mindful of the dark shadows and the unseen trips and traps.
We will pull apart those leaves, branch by branch, and scatter them to the wind so that it snows green.
And then, with the door before us, it will be you who opens it. I do not have the knack of it.
Behind the door… what will you see?
Clouds, ball bearings, rivers on Mars? Fantastic animals or a million tiny flowers?

I just know that for years, the door will have been unseen, and will now only open to your touch. Behind it’s aged wood, such dreams and nightmares and untold stories will be seen, and if I promise to look after you, maybe you’ll walk through that door into a brand new world.

Snapshot 3

Fishlake National Forest, just outside Utah, is where we buried it.

Wrapped in a blanket, which we took from the cupboard in the hall, where all the bedding and towels are kept.

When we made the decision, there was no going back. And to paraphrase Macbeth, “If it were done, then ’twere well it were done quickly”. Hesitation during any of what followed would have proved disastrous to our resolve.

We saw a different side of each other that day – you proved far more ruthless in deed and thought than I had seen before, and I like to think you saw a softer side to me.

As the forest closed in around us, the mood in the car darkened along with the shadows that surrounded us. We knew we were approaching the spot we had picked out using Google maps satellite view. Quiet, secluded, and off the seldom travelled road. We didn’t speak. You knew the way, so I was left to sit and look out of the window, watching the dark greens and browns flow by.

The dark, black peat gave way under the blade of the shovel. You sat on an old stump and smoked, your first cigarette for two years, while I dug down. All about us was the noise of the forest – falling branches, rustling creatures, and the deep age old sound of trees growing. The steady thump and scatter of the excavated peat hitting the floor.

“That’s enough”, you said. I looked at the hole I had created and agreed, it was deep enough. Or maybe it would never be deep enough to hide what we had done, and you were just cold and ready to be done with this. I returned to the car to fetch our burden, and lifting it from the back seat I carried it back into the small clearing we had found.
You stood, and gently placed one hand on top of the wrapped bundle. Our eyes locked for a second, and in that heartbeat of time we knew this was a secret that would keep us entwined forever.
I lowered it down into the ground. And while you went back and sat in the car, I filled in the hole.
It filled in quicker than it emptied.