A Rusty Blue Chair

Words by: Open Pores. Photo by: Suanie

There is a body in the light brown coffin. People are watching on from their desks. Black ties and dresses. Grey gowns. White shirts. Squeaky, lucid black shoes on the floor. Muffled sounds when the priest asks the congregation to raise and sit down again. I am standing by the side of my mum, holding her. Never stayed this close, or holding her arm for this long. Shoulders tight, my body is not comfortable in this position. I whisper “I am so sorry” to her. I close my eyes. I open them up again. Someone is peeping at their watch. Someone is talking to someone else. The light comes in from several rose windows above us. The sun is low in the afternoon. Comes in through one of the rose windows. Hits the white gown of the priest, making it even brighter. The body is not going anywhere. The body will not go anywhere.

I am in a cafe, a woman is sitting at a table. She wears a formal dress, to the knee. Black and dark blue, formal office shoes. She has ordered a latte or a cappuccino. It must be a cappuccino, double shot, the drink is darker. Dark brown against the white froth. All around the corporate colours of the branded coffee chain. The waiters have the same colours on their t-shirt. The woman is wearing her hair in a crotch. She types and focuses on her laptop. Her face is very close to the monitor, but I cannot see what she is writing, her back is against the wall. She types in something, then she waits. When the reply comes in, she types something else, then waits some more. The pattern is regular, sometimes she waits a little longer. Or takes longer to write. I close my eyes. Then I open them up again. The lady’s cheeks are getting red, against the soft white complexion of her skin. Her legs are crossed, but have started to move, at first slowly and now quite visibly. Not excessively, but still visibly. Up and down. Stroking. Her green-tipped nails tick on the keyboard, is her breath getting faster? Cycles of write and wait get shorter, until she finally stops, hands away from the laptop. Hands on her belly. Staring at the monitor. Her legs have stopped as well. A second or two, or maybe more. She raises her eyes and watches all around her. No one seems to notice anything from anyone. A guy with a spiky red punk hairdo laughs a fat laugh.

I am watching outside the window of my car. White shirts, black leggings. Grey cars, white and grey buildings. Black shoes. Sport shoes. Sport shoes. More procession. Dark brown leather briefcase, short hair, jacket and a dotted light dark tie. Dark blue cars on the side of the road, grey and white pigeons. A dark green, over-floating dustbin where someone is throwing an old newspaper in. A queue of people in front of the bus stop. I close my eyes. I open them back again. Reds and yellows surface. Yellow, lots of it. Bright blue of a door beside a restaurant. A mum pushes a red pram with a baby in. All the toys dangling from the handle, soft coloured books. The pinks are the ones that hide best. Circle and swirl. Infinite possibilities.