The stealer

I don’t know when the shift happened, but I know it did. I can tell because I no longer aspire to be somebody else. I’ve given up on trying to be somebody else, although I do still wish I was taller, smarter, more driven, more ambitious, more confident, and less… difficult. 

I’m not jealous of the couple sitting opposite me; he, the James Dean rebel with a tuft of beard that seems to be masquerading as a goatee. Reddish leather jacket, leather brown flatcap, and jeans. He has an orange lambda wrapped around his left arm, and what sounds like an American accent. The large red headphones hint at a musical career, or some deep interest in music.

She seems like the complete opposite, on the outside anyway. Flowing teal dress, frill-edged cream-coloured cardigan, ballet slippers. Delicate features. Her style is clearly well thought out, albeit perhaps not for Glasgow weather. A pair of purple-rimmed glasses sits on the table. Maybe she is resting her eyes. She picks up her sandwich cautiously, pinning it between her thumb and index finger, using them as human tweezers. 

Nothing is passing between them. She doesn’t look impressed with what he’s saying, but she doesn’t look bored either. Then again, how am I to know? What’s more, why is it any of my business? 

They got up and left, happily enough. 

In simple terms, why the fuck do I care? 

I don’t know if I do, to be honest. I’m just a writer, a stealer, robbing people of their actions, and imposing thoughts on them, as if they were characters in a book. And they don’t even know it.


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