The Sleeper
He came in the pub alone. Hands crushed deep in his dark overcoat pockets; long and thin, slow and all to himself, peering deeply from hooded eyes, seeing all, a face full of stories and struggle. After a while he slept. Head sunk into his chest, arms crossed heavily over himself, holding on, legs stretched out, he owned the corner and the world disappeared. He slept with the comfortable abandon of a cat. All around people drank, ate, talked, the fire danced, outside the wind blew and every time someone entered or exited the door slowed, then abruptly whacked shut with a bang, but none of it reached him.
Two old men, leaning together, on the next table, looking through old photos, glimpses of lost people, locked in moments, poignant, but he was oblivious. One of the senior women who worked there kept glancing at him as she shuffled past. She rarely smiles. Uneasy, bothered, after a while she went and spoke to him, awkwardly, trying to not draw attention; quietly diplomatic while starkly authoritative. All I heard was something about, can’t stay. But still he slept. Her perpetual glare and glances couldn’t reach him. Maybe she thought he was dead. Maybe he’d done it before; but he was elsewhere, lost and not ready to return; the pull was too strong. Sometimes it can be hard to be contained by the weight of the body and the heaviness of the world. Sometimes it’s all too easy to drift loose, to float away, to abandon the heavy connection.
As we left, he hadn’t moved, not a flicker, he was long gone. Maybe he’s sleeping still. Maybe he’s vacated this role, exited the game. Maybe he’s found somewhere better and decided to stay.
Featured Image (Top photo) by Stefano Pollio on Unsplash
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