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Pictures from Liberia Altair

There is no better place than a bookshop cafe to take snapshots of life unfold.

Here are my pictures from tonight. 


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Her T-shirt said breakfast rules not hearts and it was perfect. As she crumpled the paper before her he gazed steadily at her. Trying to judge her next move. She was unpredictable and that is what he liked about the whole thing. That he couldn’t tell what was coming next. As humans we liked to be surprised. 

This is why the discovery of a tattoo on her upper arm had been the thing that made his eyes  wander and as a result his hands. 
It is always the small things that make us fall in love. The big almost don’t matter. But we forget every time. 

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The two pink clips perched either side of her head. I am not sure how she knew the exact equal placement of them either side of her pony tail, but the soft pink mental clasps had been mathematically placed as if judged with a ruler. 

She made her notes precisely in the book. Turning pages one by one. Referencing. Exactness was in her nature just like her hair clips.  Only the glass and beer and yellow watch hinted she was much much more. 

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It started as language classes and ended, well you know how it ended. They hadn’t realised it was happening a first, so intent on the business of learning the words, that it unfolded slowly. But each time she attempted a new conjugation of the verb his warm smile made her melt and he couldn’t help but look with encouraging eyes designed at first to bring the comfort needed for any new language learner, but over time he realised were reserved just for her.  

This is why they met a the bookshop cafe. For a bar would they both knew take things too far.  The bookshop was far enough. 

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You know when things are really bad. It is when I start playing twith the cake fork. There is no other reason to move cake around a plate. Other than to let you know things are very very wrong. 

If things were fine I would just eat the cake. 

But now it sits between us as a barrier an invisible wall of sugar and butter, that would be visible on my waist line if I continue. But I won’t instead the fork plays in my hands, the icing becoming unrecognisable. 

We both know it is done. I just need to put the cake fork down or finish the cake.  At some point the lights will go off and we will have to leave. 

Until then I will fiddle with the fork in my hands, so you know you were so close to being the one. But close is still too far away.
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