Sunday, 26 May 2013

Scattered roses

Everyone has past loves in their long lives, ones which you want to throw stones at when you’re in a pub, but you still tip your hat to as you walk past.

And I’m smoking a cigarette, also in a hat, looking at Kate walking with Hince, eating some kind of pastry and I tip my hat, walking past, not knowing if my mind is playing tricks, just like I thought drugs were on Galliano when he called Kate the last of the English roses. Of course I found it hilarious and I had seen the wedding with a different ring, not matching the one I carry in that gray suit.

Love fades, like jeans, you just wear it more, it changes, you love it.

I keep watching her entering that pastry cafe as I sit on the opposite side of the road, not reading the Guardian just like Jamie Hince does. Instead I just sit reading some Burroughs, rereading whatever I can find among my shelves even reading Sarah Waters and I yelp at the fisting scene.

I stopped reading it, lighting a cigarette. I see her enter in and she remains there, eating alone, a black hat close to a fedora covering the start of her blonde hair.

I come back the next day already with an apron and I ask to be taken in, as if they would cuff me, but it’s not about the money, it’s about serving a lady and they take me, their faces plastered with curiosity why would I want a job here, but once its asked, it gets answered and I smoke my breaks as other waiters eat the pastries other people could’ve eaten.

And I see her in a shiny top, eating the pastry, raising her hand to call out to me and her eyes are glued on her own image in Vogue with other yellow pages scattered on the small glass table.

“Water?” I ask, trying not to hold my smile and I wonder how I look, glancing sideways to the mirror above the lazy barista.

She raises her eyes and goes back to reading. I just look down, dissapointed, like a child which some fucker had stolen their balloon in Disneyland, ignoring the fact that I am in Disneyland and I can get another Cinderella balloon, but I want the one which popped in the sky, maybe even the one I got stolen yesterday.

Kate raises her eyes again. I can see the eyeliner drawn to make her eyes bigger and she looks at my apron and I can see her head leaning backwards, her hair making wings for her thoughts as if she is leaning backwards again from my window, smoking, nails dyed black and she looks gorgeous.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” She laughs a bit, pointing at my apron with her finger and she starts laughing. “What the fuck.”

“Yeah, water.” She says, nearly shooing me off, but then stops. “Why the fuck are you a waiter, Peter?”

“Cinema. Y’know.” I swallow, such a lie, I’m not playing a waiter, I’ve just released the movie where I am french, but I’m not a french waiter.

“Oh, ok. Sit down, waiter.” Kate takes the Vogue, flicking through a few pages, showing a half nude photo of hers and I remember my mouth on her breasts. “How do I look?”

“Goood.” I stretch the “o” a bit, biting my tongue behind my close lips, a small smile covering my lips and where they had once been. Calling Kate is more than nice, but it isn’t enough sometimes, it’s like a short night when you’re up in Scotland and it’s light at three am and it’s already day at five and you’ve done an all nighter, like losing your first time with a person. It feels innocent and goes on until you fall asleep, fading the borders between the end and beginning.


I hope you enjoyed it:3 I was struggling with an idea and I saw a photo of Peter carrying a tray with beer and I got the idea :D

I love them both so much and yes, I ship them more than Jamie/Kate. I don't really like them together, I like them both, but not together. -.- And I've liked them since they started dating and ever since

I WILL GO DOWN WITH THIS SHIP. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it and please feel free to request the next chapter:3


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