disproportionate

The temperatures seem to have risen somewhat and so I wear a lighter coat and begin the short walk to the bus station. Within a few minutes of leaving the house I begin to wonder if the coat will be sufficient, it’s been a clear day but this has resulted in the temperature dropping deceptively again and it’s just above freezing. Tonight, unlike last time, there are no French visitors with their English student friends waiting alongside me at the bus stop and I feel disappointed about that. The bus is due to arrive one minute early and I am happy to learn that I have one minute less in the freezing cold. I have my ear phones in and the sounds Bad Religion’s True North accompany me. The first bus comes – not the bus that I need – and I go on messaging a friend who has just messaged me. The bus driver swerves the bus towards the curb and stares at me in anger because he doesn’t know whether he should stop or not. I wave him away. Strange that they are quite happy to drive by if you don’t dive out in front of them but when you’re ignoring them they practically run you over to gain your attention. The next bus arrives – the correct bus – and I step to the street and wave to him to stop. I climb onto the bus and the driver looks straight ahead of him and says nothing. I ask for a day ticket and he tells me the price without looking at me. I pay, take my ticket, and sit down towards the middle of the bus without the driver once looking at me. It’s not uncommon. I’m just another unwelcome customer.

                Arriving in Guildford I walk down towards ‘Five and Lime’ and await the arrival of the friend I am meeting. Standing in front of a second-hand electronics store I feel uncomfortable as people come and stand in my immediate personal space to look at the electronic items behind me. I lift my collar against the cold wind and with relief notice my friend walking up the hill towards me. We shake hands and walk into the bar, order beers (it was happy hour but the new barman charged me full price and I never even thought about it until we sat at the table). Sitting down I begin to moan about everything and anything until the effects of the alcohol begin to soothe me and suddenly I feel tolerance and happiness flooding back into my veins.

At this moment, she arrives... the beautiful bar lady for whom I have made this trip. The hope of seeing her is all that has brought me from my house into this cold night. Suddenly it doesn’t seem to matter that the bar is filled with groups of men all out looking for women, hunting in packs, speaking on the very top of their voices and, at the same time, it matters not that the beer I’m drinking is not the one I would choose if there was more choice. It matters not that I have had a frustrating week and that this day has, thus far, not provided much relief. She is there, before me, behind the bar, the one I once referred to as the disproportionate one, and she is looking as mesmerizingly beautiful as I have ever seen her. She is short and very petit, with long black hair and the most beautiful eyes, nose and lips. Every feature of her body is spectacular and I can no longer even recall what it was that initially caused me to crown her the disproportionate one. She’s not that. She’s certain too good for the likes of me.

                I walk to the bar to get another drink and walk to the farthest end simply because she is there. She must realise this obvious move but she dutifully steps forward and asks what I would like. I suddenly notice the extent to which her cleavage is showing and, in spite of my determination not to look, an uncontrollable urge overwhelms me and I gaze from her eyes down to her cleavage. She smiles as if happy that I have done so (but is probably thinking that I am a pig just like everyone else) and the sight causes my mind to go blank... I can’t recall the name of the beer that I’ve been drinking. She smiles again and laughs a little. I eventually remember and roll my eyes and smile to show her my embarrassment. She charges me the happy hour price and hands me the change with her tiny, delicate hands. Our fingers brush and my heartbeat rises. I walk back to my seat realising that I am in for another one of those nights of torment where one sits before everything one desires and then must walk away, hungry, desirous, longing, forlorn and empty at the end of the night. The recognition of the forthcoming pain upsets me and frightens me in its inevitability.

More and more men crowd into the bar and in shouting groups these wolf packs linger around the beauty at the bar and make a noise reminiscent of that one must witness upon the imaginary infernal shores of Pandemonium. My friend grows increasingly disturbed and requests that we go outside. We do so and we stand in a section that has a window into the bar, this is not something we do consciously for the windowed part of the bar is seldom used and there is little that can be seen through it beyond bottles and a coffee machine. However, within moments of us inhabiting this spot, the disproportionate one moves into view, looks at us through the window, and seems relieved that she has determined our whereabouts. She remains in this space, which is most uncommon for the bar staff, and my mind starts to deceive me. I start to believe that she must be doing this for the sole purpose of seeing us and allowing us to see her... to maintain a connection. After a short period of time I feel as if I am freezing to death and suggest that we go back inside. We do so and receive a wondrous smile from this Aphrodite of Guildfordian night life. I order more drinks and shortly after taking the first sip I see Aphrodite and a barman whisper to each other as she runs her hand up his ribs with the unmistakeable touch of a lover whilst he plays with her hair. Even though she didn’t seem very excited about him and even though she glances over almost apologetically as he walks away, it makes our decision to leave easy and, once more, we pour out, hopeless and loveless, in the Guildford night to begin our empty journeys home.