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2011

Character List:

Aida - age 27

(Last time I saw Richard – by Joni Mitchell)

(Speaking to her lover) Looks different... Have you changed something? I must have been here before, right? A week ago, it was a week ago. I’ll pour the whisky, alright? (AIDA drinks a whisky) I should've called. Promised I would. Not a one-night hit-and-run. I’ll call. I’m not a wanker. Look, I’m here.

 

(Addresses the audience) Busy week. I didn’t sneak off. I know it was seven; work called. Not all lie-ins, right? Had to let the delivery in. You're an expert on pub work? Why am I here?

 

For the first time in six years, I had a Starbucks. Left the pub, abandoned work. Walked down Lant Street. Turned left, crossed over at the lights… walked into that big Starbucks across the station. I went in there. Thought I'd rather die than enter a Starbucks, but instead, I live. Why do people use such ridiculous overstatements? I did not die by entering Starbucks.

 

What?

 

Hy, Hy-per-bo-le. That’s a big word.

 

If you had told me ten years ago I’d be in London, drinking a double espresso, I’d be expressionless. Alive, but expressionless. Anyway, I’m not dead. I'm alive, in SE1. Standing there, living with live memories. I’m calling them live memories, like a dance sequence going round and round, alive.

 

Where to now? I see the 35 approaching. It must have been six strides to the bus stop, yet my tits are still aching. I ignore the stares, glares, and pricks. Doesn’t everyone have at least one genetic curse? Maybe not Deepika Padukone. She is perfect. I get on the 35. Fucking London bus drivers. As you come to accept their robotic existence, this one,

 

‘Nice day sexy?’

 

I don’t say anything. I sit and fade, alive, sitting and fading. There’s an obscure noise—a serenade. Passengers look at me. I shut my eyes, sit and fade, alive. Sitting and fading until Shoreditch High Street. Cross over two roads and turn right at Redchurch Street. Walk all the way to the end. Stand at your block, look up, contemplate ringing your buzzer. I ring your buzzer. I’ve been here. What I want to say is… Thank you. Thank you for letting me in. Pour me a whisky.

Would you call last night’s memory a memory? … Fresh. Alive. Memories that are happening, momentarily happening. I leave Starbucks, contemplate continuing this kick with Patron. (drinks more whisky) I’m fine.

I shouldn’t have come. I’ll leave. I seem to be imposing. I should have called. I should have at least messaged. I shouldn’t have come. I’ll leave.

We have a regular. George.

"Ads, you’re closing again? How old are you now, thirty?"

Twenty-seven, thanks. the taps are coming off, are you having another or what?

"I’ve had my three".

Lemonade?

"Squeeze a bit out".

I’ll be charging for a pint.

"Half".

 

George. Not someone I’d call a friend. Many would call him a friend. He’s funny and interesting. Asks many questions, one of those rare men who listen to the complexity of...

 

Full of intrigue, wanted to discover everything. Filled with intrigue. Everyone loves him, popular with staff, popular with punters but not my friend.

 

We did hang out yeah. I was at Weaver’s Field.

"Ads, what are you doing here?"

I live here.

"I’m doing a walk".

What, a new hobby?

"I love walking. My daughter and I go on all sorts of hikes".

Look at you. Where are you walking today?

"South-east to east. I’ll get the train back".

Carpenters is ‘round the corner?

"Go on then, a swift one".

 

Went in for one, and we both left plastered. Not that you'd be able to tell with him. He is in his fifties and he invigilates at a gallery. He was in marketing or was it advertising, I think it was the latter, but look at him now, living the simple life.

(Speaking to her lover) Thank you. For letting me in. I should go. What? It’s been a week since we, you know, and well, I wanted to say hello. I could have messaged, yes. What do you mean? Between us, George and me? Are you having a laugh? He’s not even my friend. But he knows me.

 

(Speaking to George) George predicts my future, understands me better than myself. He walks in twelve on the dot, he sees me.

"Ad, do you want to talk about it?"

What?

"All this being hungover, you’re being careful?"

What do you mean?

"Well, we all know what it’s like, it’s a slippery slope. There’s a lot of potential and the best have disappeared by 27".

Potential?

"You’ll figure it out".

Like my own pub?

"Something else is coming, it will come". 

 

He’s a dick. What’s wrong with pub work? It’s a job, isn’t it? Many people in Boro would kill for a job like this, many people in Boro would snap up working in a pub. Mind you, he’s not really a dick, more you know, a character.

(Speaking to George) "Ads, you alright?"

George, keeping away from the girls?

"It really isn’t like that".

Really? No sweeties hanging off every word you say?

"Ads, you’ve got me wrong".

And everyone else?

"Not everything you hear is true".

 

More whisky?

 

As soon as a girl walks in, he has a thirteen-year old’s smile, all his best friends. It’s a talent. I wouldn’t let him near me. He was inappropriate, once. Sober at the time too. I let him off. Told him it wasn’t the days of having your secretaries bent over. Only happened once, he never did it again.

...

I’ll get going. Not sure.

 

I’ll go for a jog, run from Quaker Street, cut through Bangla Town’s estates, cut through side streets, run past two Tesco’s and a million other convenience stores. I’ll run right into my basic gym at Cambridge Heath and lift those ridiculous things, those things that cause more damage than bending without your legs apart. I’ll return to Quaker Street, shower, and get dressed. I could go back to the pub. I could drink glasses of Viognier while cooking pies. Have you had the Heidi? Sweet potato and goats’ cheese. When did the obsession with sweet potato spread within the M25? I could end the shift, drunk on the Viognier and switch to an ale, using a trendy jug. I could pretend I have a moustache. Mind you, I haven’t plucked for two weeks, no need to pretend. I should let it grow. Harnaam Kaur oozes sexiness; I might be able to rock a furry moustache. What do you think?

 

(Speaks to her lover) Or we can go to Superstore and get trashed. Fancy it? I should be cooking pies for the lunch rush, but here I am at your house, 1PM on a Wednesday afternoon. Are we going to Superstore?

 

I’ll go then. I’m not being like anything. We had sex last Wednesday, how are you a stranger? It’s my life.

 

(AIDA falls to the floor. She is frozen).

 

I’ve been putting stuff together for the pub, piecing together documents, stuff. Posters, music sheets, flyers, guitar picks. Archive? Suppose it is. Why didn’t I think of that? I’m sat there; my phone beeps, it’s Paul, the owner. Paul enters the office, talking to me, face to face, and using his mobile. ‘It’s George. He’s erm, he’s dead’. What do you mean he’s dead? ‘He got hit by a car’ He was with me last night. ‘He’s dead’.

 

I abandon the pub and go to Starbucks.

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