The Llandudno Woman: A non-fiction piece

A Story by trokanmariel33

The Llandudno Woman

A non-fiction piece

By Thomas Heath

The mental chaos, illness and the mental confusion I was under, in this time period, was what had enabled me to be drawn to this young adult woman.

Not to suggest, as a clarifier, that there was a connective tissue, pertaining to the gorgeous blonde lady and my mental state.

French history. German history. British history.

They were all a form, of presence, in my mind, as I witnessed this said woman look back (as time further progresses, I’ll examine with even greater nuance, the reality, I experienced, concerning this moment, of when the woman I’d become fascinated with stopped walking, on her way back from work, and proceeded to focus momentarily on the geography she’d travelled from in front of me).

My mental state. It was 2015. The summer, though its usual spiritual self, had had to be forsaken by myself owning to my need to be seen to by local therapist doctors, as an outpatient context.

Indeed. Just assigning the textual proximity, there is yet no suggestion or idea of link of having to abandon “summer’s sunlight spirituality” to the French/German/British nationalism.

The young adult woman, who worked at the Llandudno pier café (a café, that is no longer in service); it’s my desire, and my sexual desire, to bequeath to her, to her blonde hair, to her perfect sexy face, to her grey clothing and her long fingernails the triple S �" summer’s sunlight spirituality.

To her boom forehead, I want to give the triple S.

2015 then. I was under duress. I’d spoken to certain doctors, about my thoughts and about my confusion. The meetings, at my local hospital, The Willows, were there own spiritual meaning, especially because of the geography of the place that the meetings were held at.

Eventually, August arrived.

I deviated. My parents and I were visiting the Llandudno pier; either at their suggestion, or, at my own initiative, I went on ahead, to do some exploring of my own.

The café.

It was based, around a tangent or sort of tangent part of the pier’s walkway. Despite my virginity, sex, sex, and sex was the meaning of my life, upon first seeing the specimen of a gorgeously tanned woman, working behind the glass window, behind the café counter.

At the outset, I mention, that my mental state was what enabled me to become drawn, to this very sexual looking lady.

To clarify: it was my mental chaos, that enabled me to think about sexual realities, that I wanted for this café worker. Namely, me wearing a three piece suit for the lady.

An unemployed person, I was hardly the kind ready to wear a three piece suit: by this, the intention of meaning is that my routine, as an unemployed person, meant a degree of galvanization against the psychological impetus to wear a grey three piece suit, for this tanned woman.

Time, moved on. I eventually re-locate, to where my mom and dad and pet beagle Bandit are, on the pier.

Exactly, what transpired in between the moments of the glamorous woman, I’m now ten years later aged 35 unable to recall.

The boom.

Because she turned back.

Minutes, after minutes, after having first witnessed the specimen, working in the indoor cafeteria, I then became aware of and witness to her again �" this time, opposite the British Heart Foundation charity shop.

She turns, after having stopped walking.

I’m still with my parents, and am currently heading back to the place that we’re staying at.

This time, she’s wearing a grey zip-fleece, on top of the white shirt that I saw her wearing at the pier.

(divided loyalty here: there is my loyalty, to sex, defined by this glamorous woman’s wearing a shirt, instead of a type of relaxing t-shirt, and then of course there is my loyalty to the worker’s rights ethos/anti-capitalist ethos)

Indeed: she’s turned, and I’m able to watch her looking back, at the geography she’s travelled through, doing so long enough so that I can enjoy seeing her again without having to fear her seeing me seeing her.