This is the final piece from the creative writing course I've just taken. I really enjoyed writing this. I hope you enjoy reading it
The man checks his watch and grins. Same time, same place, every day. He pushes the street cleaning machine up the dropped curb and onto the pavement, stopping in exactly the same spot outside McDonald's as every other morning. He switches the machine off and locks its wheels in place. He checks the heavy-duty black plastic bag; it's half full, just as it should be at this point in his morning routine. He pulls off his gloves and tucks them into his belt before yanking open the heavy glass door and entering the restaurant.
At the counter he orders the same thing he does every morning: bacon and egg mcmuffin with fries and a large black coffee. He waits the few moments it takes for the order to be prepared and then carries it over to his usual table. He settles into the yellow moulded chair, his food and drink carefully arranged in front of him. He starts, as ever, with the coffee. First stirring in three sugars, he takes a sip of the hot, black liquid. The sweet, insipid taste floods his mouth as he swallows, relishing the slight burning sensation at the back of his throat. He unwraps the muffin and takes a large bite. He chews enthusiastically, shoves a few of the fries into his mouth. The muffin is demolished in two more bites and he turns his attention to the fries, finishing them with the same efficiency. He wriggles his ample backside against the smooth, cool plastic of the seat and holds his cardboard coffee cup in both hands.
His colleagues on the council cleaning team can't understand his love for McDonald's, the cheap fast food and watery coffee, or his pleasure at the ritual repeated every morning, but he doesn't care – it's his routine and he's going to stick to it. He smacks his lips as he drains the last of his drink and congratulates himself on a job well done. Gathering up the detritus from his breakfast to be tipped into the bin on his way out, he returns to his cleaning machine on the street.
Big Sam they call him at the council and he knows they laugh at him behind his back because of his routine, but he doesn’t care. Order is important.
***
Sam checks his watch. He grins - he’s done it again. Same time, same place, same ritual. The girl behind the McDonald’s counter smiles at him; she’s already started on his order. He pays for his food with the exact change, and takes his tray to his usual spot.
Sam freezes. He blinks hard and, balancing the tray with one fist, rubs his hand across his eyes. But when he opens his eyes the interloper is still there. A boy sitting, no slouching, in Sam’s seat. The seat that he always sits in. The boy can’t be older than 15, wearing a hoodie and jeans that must be at least three sizes too big. He’s shovelling fries into his mouth, chewing loudly.
Sam doesn’t know what to do. In all the years he’s been coming here this has never happened. He waits. That kid should be on his way to school, Sam thinks, outraged. But the boy shows no sign of moving. Seconds stretch to minutes and Sam’s food is getting cold. He will have to sit down and eat. But where? He manoeuvres to a table close to the invader and sits down.
He tucks into his food, but finds he can’t enjoy it. He eats quickly, glaring at the teenager in his seat. But it makes no difference. The boy doesn’t even notice. Sam abandons the detritus of his meal on the tray and leaves the restaurant.
In his haste, Sam has left the place early; he hasn’t checked his watch and, distressed by the presence of this stranger ruining his carefully planned routine, he isn’t looking where he’s going. The first he sees of the woman is when he collides with her. He’s a big man and he’s moving fast, she doesn’t stand a chance - she goes straight down and lands heavily on her backside. Just like a sack of potatoes, Sam thinks, and immediately recalls the disappointment of eating his fries in the wrong seat.
The woman emits a loud ‘oof!’ as the air is knocked out of her on impact with the pavement. Sam’s attention is pulled to the woman. She’s inspecting her palms, the skin has been scraped off. It stings, but it’s the only injury she’s sustained.
“Oh my word!” Sam exclaims. “I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry?” She squawks. “Sorry won’t get me up off this pavement.”
Abashed, he extends both hands to take hold of her wrists and help her back to her feet. Gently he pulls her to standing and as she rises he realises he knows her. She’s older - who isn’t? - but he would recognise those sparkling light brown eyes anywhere.
“Lottie?” He asks, still holding on to her bird-like wrists. “Lottie Mabuse? I sat next to you in English class.”
Lottie nods, but the look on her face is quizzical. She doesn’t recognise him. And then a smile breaks out, revealing a row of shiny white teeth behind her red lipstick. “Sam Benson,” she says. “You got big. And older. But I guess we all got that.” Rather sadly she touches her greying hair.
“Oh, but we should go out for a drink this evening. Talk about old times.”
Sam is gobsmacked. Go for a drink with this grown-up vision of the girl he had such a crush on at school? But this evening is Gogglebox on the telly and shepherd’s pie for dinner. He thinks about the boy in his seat, about how he wouldn’t have bumped into Lottie if that boy hadn’t been there. He grins and says: “Yes. Let’s do that.”
