ART // FIONN WHITEHEAD

One

In an almost empty tea room located in Central London, aptly named 'Kensington Tea', stood a girl. With her fair skin complimenting her lavender-coloured apron, and her ginger hair tied loosely at the nape of her neck, she was like a pice of art. She leant against the counter, eyes closing as the music of Ben Howard spilled out from the radio and blended with the tapping of rain on the windows.
She thought of home, her haven. Lumbering into bed with a good book - most likely her recent purchase of 'Emma' by Jane Austen - feet engulfed in warm slippers, gifted to her by her mother, and a mug of tea. She sunk into herself, remembering the distant, peaceful sound of the Cornish sea crashing into the pebbled beach.
But, like every time she daydreamed, she was back to reality by a simple question, "Can we have the bill, please?" She nodded, and rushed over to the family sat in the corner with a smile on her face, freckled cheeks wide.
As they left, they called out a final "thank you", which she returned with a cheery "no problem" before delivering their empty teacups to Bea, the friendly, 63 year old, white haired lady in the kitchen.
Scanning her eyes over tables and chairs, the room vacant. Her fingers grazed across the wooden countertop, reciting a piano melody she had previously composed. Her nails tapped away, she began to lose herself in the music her mind was playing her. She almost didn't realise that two people had entered. Almost.

What first brought her attention to them was a raincoat. A pale yellow number, soft against almost white skin. That almost white skin belonging to a tall boy with dark hair and glasses fit his face like a lock and key. Next to him stood a man, only slightly older, with had a harsh expression on his face, but soft eyes.
They sat by the window, in two armchairs placed opposite each other, muttering as they glanced around.
She studied them intensely, she recognised the pair but was unsure where from. She made eye contact with the boy, who gave her a small smile and blushed.
She rushed over, menus in hand and, once again, a smile on her face. "Good afternoon," she recited, "just let me know when you're ready to order." The older man let out a comforting "thank you" which the boy quickly echoed.
He was admiring her angelic features. He first noticed her rosy lips, plump and glossy. Then her hair. As she turned away, she tucked the strands that had fallen over her forehead back behind her ears, a movement he had never seen carried out so gracefully.

He sunk into his chair as he watched her walk back towards the counter, humming a tune he didn't recognise. He regretfully tore his eyes away, and was met with a smirk from the man in front of her. "You think she's beautiful, don't you Fionn?" he spoke. The boy, Fionn, blushed again. He ran a hand through his hair, "She is," he replied, "the most beautiful person I've ever seen."
The man opposite chuckled, "Hurry up and choose what you want then, you'll be able to talk to her again, confess your love."
Fionn shook his head, and with a giggle, teased "Don't make fun of me Harry, I made Dunkirk what it is."
They shared a laugh, loud enough to spark the attention of the girl twirling her hair. She glanced over at the pair, witnessing Fionn's eyes creasing with delight washing over his face.
She had never seen something so beautiful.
Harry looked over at her, and nodded. She grabbed her notepad and pulled a pen from behind her ear, making her way towards them.
"I'd like a pot of tea, please." She jotted his order down before turning to Fionn.
"And you, sir?"
He looked into her eyes, somehow calming her down, "I'm not a sir." He cheekily grinned at her, this time she was the one blushing.
"Very well, so what would you prefer I call you?"
"Fionn."
"Okay Fionn, what would you like?"
"A latte please. Oh, and your name."
Her heart fluttered and she bit her lip, making him more intrigued.
"I'm Lilly," she spoke, "I'll bring your drinks over in a minute or two."

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