Coffee Stained Bible



HE paces, front, back, and back again.
Hands labouring across his bare head, subconsciously smoothing his palms across the back, making sly contact with the curve in his neck. Dark fingers unknowingly acknowledging the black stubble hair, growing back, disturbing his bald scalp in the London air.
Eyes in front, focused, wondering, planning, draining every irrelevant thought but in his faith to run. He descends one arm by his side, stops his pace, as his other arm is flung by the side of his brightly coloured shirt.
Microphonic noise enlightens the room, thousands of voices echo across his face. The crowd vessels a wordless glory of sound waves across the stadium, loud, but steady a visually impaired blanket of interest. He taps the toe of his shoes to the track, name called over the mic, “Usain Bolt.” Euphoria belts and crashes challenging the air. The sound streams through the track, across his shoes, it touches his face, the roar of the crowd, from every country, you can hear it now – respect – honour – love.
He darts both feet out, further apart, stern, out of line with his shoulders. Slightly bent knees, elbows raised out, hands in front of his face, and slowly, he pulls his right arm back further, elbows out, his left arm extends upward, tilted now from its initial horizontal. Diagonal, straight out, finger pointing to the sky – like a bolt of lightening.
He rests, traces his palms across his head once more, brushes his forehead and paces, front, back and back again. He steps over his starter, unnervingly, every ounce of verbal energy evaporates, the air closes in, it packs every crevice, every space… he takes his mark, the gun cracks… He doesn’t pace, he bolts. 



MY vague reality. Its corners blurred when I speak. I move, seeing others and seeing myself in the same way. It feels right, but it isn’t.
My vague reality is abruptly disturbed by the harsh mellowing belt of an electronic tone. My eyes tighten as I try to hold on. I desperately, but with stillness and silence, try remembering the last movement I made, the last words I heard, but the longer it remains unsubdued, the harder it is to remember. Despite my efforts, I wake up, my body feels ridged, and out of place on top now, of the mould my body has pressed into the mattress. The alarm continues, unnoticed by anyone but me, with a sharp, repetitive, out-of-place rhythm, that demands I open my eyes. The most frustrating thing about this, is that the alarm is not for me anyway.
Next to me, his whiskers rough, mouth slightly peeled open, breathing out warm breathe, with a dry bottom lip. His long brown eye lashes flicker, yet his eyes remain shut. He looks peaceful, but I’m frustrated that I am awake. I nudge him with my knee, he squirms, he moans from being disturbed. My eyes are shut by now, he should be awake, and I’m trying to go back to sleep. 6am is not my time to wake up. He stirs, murmurs incoherence, and finally, I feel his body respond to the alert, I sense he feels the same as I had just felt moments ago. As he finally gives in to the alarm, he is up, it is off and he is naked. My hands rest by my face, propped up by the black pillow, in loose, soft fists. My body faces him, on its side, I continue my quest to fall back asleep. Though I peak, just once, as he searches for his towel.