A Chance Encounter| modern people
oh no.
Disclaimer:
Hi friend! You might notice something different about this piece in comparison to my previous ones…here’s why.
This was written as a fun, light-hearted approach to a real experience. This piece was written for entertainment amongst my friends, and is not intended to resemble something truely worth analysing. That aside, enjoy the little story.
The guitar suddenly grew heavier.
Sure, the day was long and the sun was bearing down. I couldn’t help but to recall to that cursed English essay due the next day. Bloody English: why was it always analysis? Why did Remus leave a rose for Valentine? Why did she wear a blue dress? Why why why why. Well I dunno, and I doubt Valentine or anyone else care at all. Ms Tudor just seems so bent on getting *everything* under her judging gaze. Well, that was a rather blunt introduction to my academics. Let me try again.
I like school: the teachers were still pretty cool people, and the classes decent on most occasions —
Winston gave me a nudge, “Hey, Finley, Finley were you listening?”
Met with my dazed eye, he sighed and shifted his pack from one shoulder to the next. Under that glare, the sunlight gave his dark hair a kind of ruffled sheen. He stood like a proud cockerel, with his sharp words and the *I’m one step ahead* look, eyes shining.
“I was asking for your opinion on the Ozymandias poem I mentioned in tutor period this morning. Surely you felt something there, a spark which roused your internal muse? Anything?”
When Winston gets into that British accent he never gets correct, and begins to bombard you with these questions, you know he’s looking for some kind of jolly good answer. Sure, this was annoying, especially when waiting for a late tram but that was just how he is and I don’t give it much thought to it so you probably shouldn’t either. Anyways, I knew I had to give some answer or other…
“Ozymandias was a very sexy man. ”
“I-“ He was flustered. “What?”
“You heard me,” I gave him a wink, mustering a small laugh. Winston was smart, he was a mini-Ms Tudor. But one thing his beloved classics don’t tell him about is how to respond to these random, stupid comments made by the one and only Finley. He scoffed and turned away, but I saw the big grin across his face. He was probably laughing at the sheer randomness of my response, but that’ll break him up from his big words and long sentences and even longer questions and coax him to actually talks about some fun things. As they say, genius is self-conscious. I’m not sure about the genius part, but he is certainly the latter. I’ve seen him when he lets that guard down — actually a pretty agreeable fellow I’d say.
We went back to that tired silence again, until the tram finally arrived: a snake in the hot desert sands; but only if that snake was painted bright neon green, and that desert was indeed the heart of Melbourne City. The doors opened, a great wave of airconditioner-cooled air buffeting our faces. I heard Winston mutter something about a bag of winds and Odysseus, or whatever he was called.
I had no time to think about books, much less about old books. I heaved the guitar onto an empty seat, making room for myself and another. My companion gladly accepted my invitation. There we sat: myself with the great instrument half across my lap, and Winston with five books stuffed in all his blazer pockets, eyes and thoughts probably lost in Narnia or whatever. I was just about to ask him something about the new geography teacher, when he suddenly uttered a quick ha! Followed by a smile.
“Man, I wish you would stop doing that.”
I could see mischief beneath those eyes. He began laughing a little, as if he were at a circus anticipating a good show. He began to speak in a lower voice:
“Okay, quick riddle: Look three sailors from the bow of where you sit right now, and then three sailors on the starboard of that last sailor you saw in those last three sailors.”
“W-what? You know you’re not in the 19th century, right?”
“Ugh, it wasn’t even…Fine, my bad. Plan B”
He looked giddy now, and I didn’t make any dumb comments. Oh no.
“Follow my instructions: you see that old lady in the yellow dress?”
“Yes?”
“Now who stands in front of her? Describe him to me.”
“Well, I see a man. Probably in his thirties, slick hair, cool hat.”
“There’s a good fellow! Right, now look a few heads away, further out. Hmm? Does the person look ever so slightly familiar?”
Past that man…a few heads away…
Winston must’ve seen the surprise on my face. He gave me that *well whatchu gonna do* kind of face. I’m genuinely not sure. For someone who prouds himself in impromptu performances and easy-going jokes, I felt lost for a second. There she stood. Hazel hair, delicate figure, that wave of a hand and the gentle laugh. Even with her back turned, even with the schoolbags and the mob of friends, I knew who she was.
“Well?”
I found myself adjusting that wonky tie, tucking in the shirt and smoothing the crinkles on my blazer. Wait, I didn’t allow that! My hands betrayed me to Mini-Ms Tudor, who immediately began talking about the best Meet-Cutes in the past year of Young Adult Fiction. This was not some trashy romance novel, I retaliated. Is it really not? He laughed another one of his high, nervous laughs. It sounded more like a shriek than anything else. I can suddenly recall that Greek myth of the sirens Winston told me a few days ago. What would I do if a siren were sitting right next to me, laughing at my dismal attempts to look decent? I’ll ask for its opinion, of course.
“Well well,” he began in that slightly-wonky accent, “ You can hit up the Netherfield ball and refuse to dance with her.”
She glanced back towards my direction, and maybe even gave me a friendly wave. I felt the blood rush upward.
“Not helping!”
“How about you murder the king of Scotland and go crazy?…Or do something really silly in her face, then turn her friends into pigs?”
I rolled my eyes. He laughed, but sensed my annoyance. At this point I can already sense the words he would say. Oh, I should carefully consider my options. Oh, how I should go for it. But I don’t want to rush this, I knew a single misstep could mean a giant fall. And so there I sat, bound by the fighting of Passion and Common-Sense in my mind. Winston produced a little leather notebook, and began scribbling something, gazing up once in a while, then back down.
The tram stopped. I heard her voice grow inaudible as she departed the carriage. I took a deep breath, and turned to my friend.
He lifted his eyes: ‘ I am so writing a story about this.’
The other passengers streamed out too, savouring the last of the cool air. I thought of the broken, giant face of Osymandias. Nothing beside remains. Round the decay of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare. The lone and level sands stretch far away.
