Fool's Timing

Stiffened and a little embarrassed, a redhead stands alone in front of the mosaic wall. She looks quirky, yet with not enough confidence to pull it off as an effortless attempt. Perfectly round glasses frame her hazel eyes, as they scatter left and right. Perhaps she’s meeting someone here? 


A suede-gloved hand encases an almost-empty glass, almost too tightly, whilst the other fiddles furiously with her phone. The lady stands unnaturally and with anticipation, like a sprinter waiting for the whistle. A final nervous swig. She allows the alcohol dance upon her palette. She’d made it last for a distressful 37 minutes. 


The young woman’s ribcage rises abruptly, and down again, while her chin quivers subtly. The clink-clonk of her high heeled boots make a hurried rhythmic escape for the door. 


And so another broken heart begins its’ lonely walk home through London, as a young man, eyes wide and searching, makes his entrance into the Macbeth. He’s happy with his timing. He’s 20 minutes early.