I watch him walk in, head up, eyes down; he isn’t used to the confidence that comes with the early 30s . The café is a small one, just out of the way enough to forgive the assumption that every patron either lives nearby or will only ever visit once. My guess is the former. No one turns to look at him, not even the girl behind the counter, and that seems to suit him just fine. The momentum of his arrival doesn’t subside until he’s right up to the till and I’m sure he spent that handful of paces composing what he would say to order the same thing he gets at every coffee shop he walks into. He stops to admire a monstera before gently turning his attention to the barista. 

He’s pleasant, kind. On his back is a denim jacket, uncomfortably small, yet still worn as a final cling to those early adult years when the world allowed such arrogance. A patch on each shoulder praises a band he would have first discovered in a shop just like this one. As soon as he pays for his order, he steps to the side and I catch myself, some minutes later, having forgotten he was there. It took him picking up his coffee for my attention to grab him again.

He’s a common piece, but not insignificant. The kind that can turn invisible. 

The water was a silver-azure, sometimes made golden by the sands underneath, with waves crowned with the purest white. They rolled in three, four at a time. Surfers waited patiently for the next good swell, forming a queue only they could see. Families, couples, other children walked by, serving only as a challenge to work around.
Any ol sucker could play Catch. But to play on the sand, dodging these living obstacles, fanfared by the ocean itself, this was the peak of the game.
The simple objectives of throw and catch lasted only long enough to confirm their abilities. A formality. The real objective of Catch was to not to send the ball but to keep it. Everyone knew that. By some unspoken understanding the competition started.
Toss, upwards, not forwards. Catch. Keep. Dodge your opponent. The younger one might be smaller, but he’s quick. The older uses his size to his advantage, throwing the other to the sand, something they couldn’t do at home. The ground was soft here. Good for wrestling.
Sand sprayed away from the two and onlookers smiled. After a tussle the two stop for a moment to look around, furtively hoping to catch a glimpse of girls nearby bold enough to uncover themselves. One begins to giggle again and the rout begins anew. Soon the ball has been all but forgotten and the focus shifts to increasingly innovative wrestling moves. They have a whole beach to entertain after all.
Suddenly, the ball is loose. The breeze moves it far enough for it to be picked up and used as a projectile. Which is then caught.

The pattern repeats itself until the call of a distant mother who’s had enough wind for one day.

I leaned down to get eye level with the boy. He seemed frightened. Not of me but of the solemnity of the moment, of the understanding that discord would be received negatively. His wide eyes, still clinging to the barest remnant of baby blue, stared into mine as I spoke.
“Son,” he was not my son but that seemed the thing to say, “let me tell you about the rules of this world. There are many, but I’ll start with the first two.” I squatted down further to save my back some trouble.
“Rule number one: All other rules have exceptions. Differently put, every rule, except rule number one, can and will be overruled by at least one other rule. Rule number two: It is not your intentions but other people’s perceptions of your actions that matter in life. Do you understand?”
He shook his head. His hands were held at this mouth now, a sign of anxiety.
I sighed. “Most people don’t.”
I was about to continue when I noticed the boy begin to fidget. He was uncomfortable. Damn.

I get like this sometimes. Go so long without saying anything meaningful that I can’t keep from spilling out my thoughts on the closest target. If I’m being honest with myself, it’s not for the satisfaction of passing along my knowledge but for hearing my own voice. Either way, the sad truth of it is is: people seldom have the same yearning for wisdom like I do, so the stretches between meaningful conversation have grown increasingly longer.
The boy had run off while I was caught in introspection. I straightened back up, left knee popping in protest. Looking around, I am struck once again by the futility of it all. No one ever listens.
I ignore the stares of a patriarchally bonded couple.

Fools.

Sat across from me was me.
Like a mirror into what might be
Auburn still clinging to lips amongst life’s winter’s silver
Jacket fastened by two not three

The cuff of his floral sleeve peaked
Style in age genuine in subtlty
His weathered hands gently held his music like mine would
In-ear speakers bringing peace

Smile lines on eyes predicted
What character his heart lifted
The neutral frown was deceptive as we both knew
Even a small grin shifted

Would my future be this
Seasoned and wisdom kissed
It would be prideful to claim such a boast
Yet not so to wish it

An ocean, blue and infinite; a ship, small and worthy, could he survive a voyage across to Indonesia? What would happen if he was caught in a storm? One of those big ones that you see in movies. He wouldn’t be alone, of course. Shipmates with vague, unrecognisable faces scuttled about the business of staying afloat. One was a woman, self-confident and pretty. What would her name be? Something unique but not overly exotic…
Mira?
Yeah. Mira. Sandy-blond hair cut short enough to stay out of the way but still long enough to tie back in a ponytail. She-

A hum snapped him out of the daydream. The 5:30pm alarm. It was time to get ready and head off. He sighed. He carried the air of someone burdened with a mountainous task. Baggy eyes, dark complexion, one wouldn’t guess that he had spent the entire day doing entirely nothing. In fact, his step count was probably just enough to get him from his bed to this couch. He sighed again, got up, put on a jacket, grabbed his phone and keys and headed out of the door.

He was an unassuming man, fashionable only in the hour at which he arrived. Despite the warmth of the pub, he shivered when he stepped inside. It was a lively place; regulars stood around their favourite tables, weekenders filled the remaining space. The late-March, Saturday night air wafted through the cracked windows and just managed to offset the smell of spilled beer and cold chips. The dim screen of his phone reminded him of the date, time, and where to meet his coworkers. He was at the right place. Four steps inside the door he quietly scanned the crowd in front of him. After the second pass he recognised Jason’s haircut. Further investigation of the immediate area around that 2004-style faux-hawk revealed more familiar faces, one by one. They welcomed him when he arrived. They asked him about his week. His weekend.
“Ah yeah.”
“That’s the way.”
“You have to have those quiet days sometimes, right?”
None of the conversations lasted longer than polite preambles and he drifted from circle to circle, listening to conversations but adding nothing to them.
Without realising it, he ended up alone at a standing table nursing a lager he didn’t particularly like. He sighed and looked at his phone again. It had been 40 minutes.

“Hey. How are you going?”

He looked up from the formations of foam in his glass and let slip a smile. A crooked grin, short, sandy-blonde hair, and a grey vest. Mary. He gave back a fumbling reply in which he mashed together a few words which informed Mary that “hews doing grood todight.” She kindly smiled and offered a reply to his unspoken question. She was doing well too. They talked about his weekend. Hers. What her week was like. The current assignments at work. The weather was lovely, wasn’t it? Alright, well it was nice to talk to you.
He sighed and looked at his phone again. An hour. Silently and with discretion he moved to the side of the pub then out onto the street. By the time the door clicked behind him they had forgotten he was ever there.

Chirp

Soft. Bounce. Sandy green.
The pace isn’t quick, nor is it slow. White and pink flags race against one another, waving, calling, they want to help, but they mostly want to be the one who changes the score. The ground is false, making purchase difficult to find. And interception that slides to a stop would be impressive if it fit in the rules.

Chirp

Friendly. Laughing. Applause.
The autumn night is glad for the company and the air proves that. “Perfect night for it” is exhaled no fewer than four times. The company exults, everything enhanced by the season’s embrace. If asked, not many of them would tell you this is what they “do”; and yet, there’s a consistency in this that wouldn’t be found in most other areas of their lives. None of them are champions, but they keep to their designated roles with moxie. Mostly.

Chirp.

Yup! Yeah! Pass.
They attract a small audience. Rides, darlings, children, curious enlisters, they watch only passively, occasionally focusing in at the sound of the calling bird who narrates the play. It doesn’t last long. Many would say it’s too short. But that’s alright. Next week will be here before you know it.

Chirp

Looking back on his previous life, as he called it, one of the biggest changes he’d noticed was his walk. There was a measure of confidence in his step now. He wasn’t prideful, nor was he timid. He knew where he was headed and he stared his destination straight in the face. People around him could tell, they almost subconsciously moved out of his way, let him through. Again, this wasn’t some kind of power move on his part, simply a natural reaction. People moved out of the way of something they weren’t  sure they could stop.

The promenade was always busy this time of the evening. He loved it. Families, businessmen, university students, the odd couple enjoying the river view, always at least one person wearing red. It was an artery moved by the heartbeat of the city. He added a small hop-step to his walk, keeping time to this beat, this rhythm.

Toby deserved this. It was sheer, dumb luck that put him in the position he was in. Toby simply did what any rational person would. They were a fad, those computer coins. How could anyone have anticipated the sudden, dramatic, completely insane upswing. Toby certainly hadn’t. He hadn’t either.
He had forgotten about them.

Until he booted up his old laptop and, by consequence, his new life.

Two financial advisors, a lawyer, five houses later, a one comfortable pair of slacks later, he had a new walk.

He glanced over at a waiter at a restaurant nearby. Sunken eyes and thinning hair, he looked all too familiar. You’ll get yours one day, my friend. Just hold out a little longer.

He chuckled, looked down, and chuckled again. What do you know.

He was wearing red.