(Photo by Zac Durant on Unsplash)

Sometimes I miss the fancy kinds of drinks I once got at a coffee shop; I drink instant coffee now. Sometimes I'm spared enough change to get some, and I look forward to the luxury of enjoying the occasional cup: I'm clean now - caffeine being the one exception. Not that anyone cares; I don't look clean to them, so scraps of change are always given reluctantly and in suspicion.

I don't have anywhere to be, yet I speed up as I walk by a coffee shop, devoid of energy but desperately trying to avoid the malignant air of paranoia that the place exudes: a feeling of being besieged by uncanny stares and glances. As people nearby grip their house keys between tensed fingers, I yearn for my own to do the same with: for my own home to escape to for comfort, and for the sense of security afforded by the bite of the key's teeth between my own clenched knuckles, to forget the sharp chill breaking my skin.

I sense them in my periphery and I pretend not to notice, but it's as clear picture as ever. It's not polite to look back. They know I'm here alone, that the other three seats on my table will never be filled - their eyes cry out with sharp questioning, "why is he here, when I'm more important?" I'm an obstacle, so I drink quickly, burn my mouth. Usually I wonder if my haste will look impolite: my father used to be so upset when I rushed eating my dinner and left him behind at the table. Being wanted is out of the question in this place, so I stay in the background. Employees discreetly scan me for signs of a knife's handle, one that I wish I could grip with anger, but one that I have never carried. A prying glance of middle-class frustration is directed my way one too many times. 

Hearts as black as their order. My hands are still cold when I leave. Bystanders glance back in fear and increase their stride clumsily, crossing to avoid me; I wield the idea of a blade.
They won't have to worry anymore. I drink instant coffee now.

Reflection

Originally, I intended this short story to be an expression of frustration towards a paranoid society where we are forced to abide by social customs: one where being alone in a coffee shop or simply walking behind someone is enough to make you look suspicious in the mind of the public – however, after further discussion, I shifted the narrative voice to focus instead on the extreme negative stigma against homeless people, and how they are treated by others when they are seen in a public space, for example the coffee shop in this story.

By combining the questioning of British social etiquette with examples of common anti-homeless thoughts from average people, I was able to more clearly represent from an emotional standpoint the marginalisation that the narrative voice feels. Redrafting the story, I tried to shorten sentences to make the character more believable by improving the flow and tone of the writing, as well as the grammar: I have been guilty in a lot of my work of over-writing rather than making effective use of short sentences with less complex grammar.