life — Fiction — In the footsteps of an Itinerant Child

The scene outside was the usual. The orange walls illuminate from the harsh lighting inside and the delivery rider leant outside as ever despite the bitterly cold weather and air saturated with tiny droplets of drizzle. As always his lips and heavily yellowed teeth were wrapped around the end of a hash joint which he battled to hold through his gloved hands.

The only real difference was the fact that tonight, tonight he was laughing. Not loud or even audible but chuckling happily to himself, only given away by the jerking of his shoulders. If you couldn’t see his eyes you would think he was crying but if you didn’t know he was a delivery driver you could easily think him homeless.

The scene inside was the spectacle. He was transfixed by the events on the other side of the dirty glass laid into the orange painted brick work. The takeaway was silent as ever, Bruce Lee yellowed and rolled on the wall watching over like a taught deity.

The owner wasn’t around but his daughter was. A large and lonely girl of Chinese descent, she never spoke enough for anyone to discern whether or not she spoke any English, or even spoke it fluently with a local accent. Right now though her face was red, her forehead sweating and the sweat holding tight to any long black hairs that fell into it. Her face was that deepest concentration and intent and her breath came only in tight gasps and grunts.

The driver choked back a hacking cough which his chuckling had encouraged for fear of disturbing her.

She didn’t notice. With one more great lunge she gave another grunt and reached as far as possible across the round table and with a deft flick of her wrist caught the ball. She quickly adjusted her position and flicked the ball back with a tight reaction. The ball took a swift swing in the air and she smashed it back with her left. The right was done for, beaten.

She jumped up, arms held aloft, table tennis bat in each hand and looked triumphantly down on her homemade, roundtable tennis court. The driver turned away, fearful she would see.

Inside, excitedly she scoured the floor for her light white plastic ball with a proximity to the tiles which belied her short-sightedness ready to take herself on again. One round table, one homemade net, a bat in each hand and a determined look in her eye.

The driver let himself cough. He spat onto the tarmac as her first service was played. Bruce Lee never flinched.