blank screen memories

Alone in the corner of the ferry cafe sits Vincent. Unwashed, unshaved, the wrong side of any age not that he gives a blue fuck. Frayed collar, grimy, denim shirt, hunched shoulders, boney hands, green jeans, red converse, too much colour, no sense, left feeling ugly, irritable with an open smile.

So you are visiting the island with your friends hoping to pick up on a spiritual groove. But the ferry has gone and so have your friends so perhaps since I am lacking the necessary funds you can pay for the coffee and I’ll furbish you with a tune.

Cat tongue I didn’t catch your name. Anyways if you stroll across to the counter Morag will take your order. All those cakes are homebaked and I’d say some of them are probably gluten free. I’m looking at you and thinking fried chicken doesn’t pass those lips but I bet you eat beef. We have great oysters here. I’m saying that because I get the feeling you follow a seafood trail.

From an inner pocket Vincent pulls out an harmonica and slides it across his lips. He closes his eyes. 

I know what you’re thinking. That the melody is about loss. It is filled with pathos. That melody has reworked itself many times. Shaped and reshaped itself. But the constants are love and a woman. Throw me a wink and I’ll render something just for you.

Alexander, Alexander, isn’t it time to get yourself home.

Morag, oh Morag aren’t you always right? Isn’t that just so?