He

He counted the lines of dried coffee in his mug, disappointed at its emptiness.

He viewed it as a metaphor for his life. Empty, dried up and gone.

As much as he knew it wasn’t the case, he allowed negative thoughts to enter his mind and make a nasty nest to stay. He was feeling sorry for himself, and didn’t have the emotional capacity to change his mood �" maybe on any other day, but not now.

He rested his eyes upon the copper haired girl in the courtyard. By his great powers of deduction, he had concluded that she must be a supervisor at Little Chapel.

She stood to the side, talking to a longhaired eccentric looking man with a banjo; the rest of his band doing a sound check under the little arbor where she had once sat.

The conversation turned jovial, and the pair enthusiastically hi-fived with glee before parting �" the man back to his band, and the girl to a box sitting in the middle of the cleared courtyard.

She wore a baggy grey and burnt orange jumper with little triangles finely hand stitched all over. Tight orange jeans were cuffed to her calf, revealing an old pair of boat shoes neatly laced up.

Such strange clothes came as a surprise to Harry; they seemed to represent the girl �" from what he had seen so far �" perfectly. She surely wasn’t anything like the girls he was used to spending time with, and it drew him in like a moth to the flame.

Any closer and he would surely get burnt.

She had an air of mystery about her, yet he felt he knew her inside and out. Regardless, he wanted more.

He watched as she removed small candles from the box in the courtyard, placing them inside coloured glasses and setting them alight.

With every lit candle, the excitement in her eyes grew. The anticipation of a big night rife in the air, the workers cleared tables and swept floors with great happiness �" yet another thing that Harry wasn’t used to. Generally the pure monotony of the daily grind would drive workers to the depths of despair, but it was clear to see that there was a difference in the staff of Little Chapel.

The warmth and atmosphere felt so communal, so homely. Harry didn’t ever want to leave, nor did he make plans to.

Feeling his negative mindset wearing thin, he went in search of the bathroom to freshen up. Now wanting to look his best, as he made plans to introduce himself to the copper haired girl who saved him from his minder.

Down a hallway and to the left, Harry stood at a large hand basin, staring into the depths of his own eyes, not minding the intimacy at all.

He had to pull himself together; he was normally so level headed. Perhaps this was a mid life crisis.

He splashed cold water onto his face, watching as it trickled down his chin and onto his sweater. He enjoyed feeling the slight discomfort of having water in his eyes, and noted with satisfaction the change in colour �" green apples staring back at him as opposed to the usual emeralds.

Harry took time to admire the naked lady wallpaper that adorned the walls in the charming men’s bathroom. Whoever decorated Little Chapel had seriously good taste in his books.

He lifted a finger to the wallpaper and traced the lines on the face of a naked lady, mouth open in agony, arm outstretched to a far off lover. The scene depicted upon the walls at first sight was innocent, but on a closer inspection Harry found it to be quite horrific.

The old wooden door to the bathroom swung open and an elderly gentleman walked in, sporting a white button down, dress pants, lace up oxfords and suspenders. His wrinkles sagged below his jawline; eyes alight with happiness as he took in the sight before him.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he said with joy, rubbing the grey hairs on his head.

Harry snapped out of his trance, startled at the appearance of the old man.

He looked around; mouth slightly agape, green eyes wide with innocence and fear.

“It’s horrific.” He exclaimed quietly.

“Ah, you’re English,” The old man said, walking towards Harry with a slight limp, “my first lover was an English lass.” He winked cheekily.

Harry couldn’t help but grin.

“What was her name?” Harry asked.

The old man looked at the ground as he fumbled about in his pocket for something.

“Her name was Dorrie,” he removed his wallet and held it open to Harry.

Harry took the wallet and examined the old black and white photograph of a young woman, curls falling around her face, eyes bright with hope.

“I would have given the world to have married that girl,” the old man said sadly, taking the wallet back off Harry, “but it seems it wasn’t meant to be.”

Harry frowned.

“What happened?”

The old man looked off into the distance.

“She was the one that got away.” He said, tears welling in his eyes.

“Oh,” Harry said, not fully understanding what the man meant, “I’m sorry.”

The old man patted his eyes with a handkerchief, laughing sadly.

“If you love someone, let them know.” He said softly.

Harry nodded and edged towards the door, not wanting to see the old man cry.

“It was lovely to meet you.” He said as he put his hand on the door handle.

The old man turned around and chuckled.

“Don’t let the naked women get you down!” he waved Harry off before meandering towards the toilet stall.

Harry smiled to himself as he walked down the hallway, glad to have met such a brilliant old man under awkward circumstances.

He vowed under his breath to never let the naked women get him down again.

The second he entered the reading room he noticed something had changed. He strode to his little wooden table, looking about suspiciously.

The copper haired girl stood in the courtyard talking to another woman, pointing every which way as if describing some vivid scene of battle.

Upon his table was a deep green notebook, accompanied by a pen and a fresh mug of coffee.

A greying lady swept the floor nearby, humming an old tune loudly.

“Is someone else sitting here now?” he asked.

She looked up, eyes glimmering in the low light.

“Only you.” She smiled politely and swept her way out of the room, turning back to look at Harry over her spectacles before batting her way through the beaded curtain.

Harry sat down and pulled the notebook towards him.

Curiosity took over every other emotion in his mind as he undid the elastic strap holding it closed, opening it to the first page.

This journal is the creative property of:
You and only you.

He frowned, turning to the next page.

I find it helps to write it down,
x.

The rest of the pages in the notebook were blank.

Harry looked up to find the copper haired girl in the crowd of workers, busily tidying the courtyard.

A tuft of perfectly manicured copper hair could just be seen over by the back wall.

Who knew what she was up to now.

Not Harry, that’s for sure.

He picked up the felt tipped pen and twirled it between his fingers, focused on the girl’s hair as it bobbed up and down as if she were skipping about. From what he had seen of her so far, it would not surprise him if that was exactly what she were doing.

With great care and delicacy, he brought the pen to the page, forming his first word.

This word then sprouted a neighbour, and before too long, Harry began to write word upon word down the gifted page. Eyebrows furrowed with thought and perseverance.

At last, some purpose in his day.