A Stroll Through Town
A short story.
It’s bastard freezing.
Like chryo-freeze-preservation-of-a-body-for-a-couple-millennia freezing.
The thing in my pants that I’m rather fond of is slowly beginning to ascend back into my body and I have the urge to take a crash-course in knitting so that I can make the little guy a jumper or something.
I mean, cough. Not-so little guy. Cough.
For 10am, it’s relatively busy. People are bustling past me, heading towards jobs that I’m pretty sure they’re late for by now and lingering outside burger vans waiting for their breakfast. There’s this sense of normality in the air — like this typical Thursday morning is a routine that has been practised repeatedly for decades, each step perfectly choreographed and rehearsed.
My attention falters.
I’m striding quickly towards the café, determined to get there with enough time to save what little I have left of my genitals, but I’m caught off guard. My breath is stolen right out from under me. Robbery in broad daylight.
Stood just outside the window of the jewellery shop I’m about to pass is the most beautiful girl I have quite possibly ever seen. Which is pretty bad advertising, if you ask me. Placing the most flawless girl outside the storefront? I mean, come on. She’s obviously going to outshine every piece of jewellery beside her. Nobody is even going to notice that there’s a building there, not with her to catch your eye.
Her hair sits lopsidedly on top of her head, swept up into a blonde bun. She’s wearing all black, mimicking the dreary, drizzly sky as she stands there in her thick coat and gloves. Her lipstick, though, is a shocking shade of red. A colour designed by vampires, I imagine. Whatever it is she’s doing today, she’s doing it with purpose.
I slow my pace a little — not in a creepy way — but hopefully just enough to draw her attention from her phone to me.
She’s got a cigarette poking out from between her crimson lips as she scrolls through whatever she’s looking at with a gloved finger. I can’t say I’m a big fan of the smoking thing, but hey, when you’re in a loving relationship you learn to comprise. And giving up that crappy habit can be hers.
Her eyes are narrowed at the screen, face disdainful. She’s probably looking at the weather for today or a political update — some shit like that. Hopefully she hasn’t just received a reply from her boyfriend, informing her that he’s going to be late for dinner tonight.
Although.
That might actually be cause for a shoulder to cry on. And once I’ve wiped the rain off of mine, it will be dry and cosy and available.
I know, I know. I’m a devious bastard.
The thing that sucks is; she doesn’t look up. She doesn’t even register my presence. I’m just another passerby with a place to go and things to do. I’m not the first who is in awe of her, I’m sure. And I certainly won’t be the last. She’s leaning awkwardly against the shop window, obviously already miserable about the day ahead. I was kind of hoping I could be the one to change that.
But the other thing that sucks is; I do not have the balls (pretty literally right now. Seriously, where have they gone? I think my organs are hiding them from me) to go over and introduce myself to her. First of all, this isn’t some American film. Second of all, if it was, then I definitely would not have been cast for the role of leading man. The mere sight of her face almost made me trip over my own awkward feet, so imagine if she looked me directly in the eye.
Hell, imagine if she actually spoke to me. A shudder sweeps my body.
So yeah.
It’s probably better for my heart rate if I keep walking past.
Tearing my gaze from her, I fix my sight on the café that has now appeared up the hill in the distance. The busy road winds out of sight as a trail of buses like a vehicular-conga rush past me. It’s all I can do not to glance over my shoulder and see if she’s still there.
It’s also all I can do not to beeline straight for the dessert shop that’s directly on my left. And because I have very little willpower as it is — all of which I’ve exhausted on not looking back at her — I give in and I go in.
If small, toddler-aged children could be used for interior design, then this is what they’d produce. Everything is pink and purple and sparkly and there is no in-between. But that doesn’t deter me. I already know exactly what I’m having.
As I sit at the table waiting for my white-chocolate and Nutella waffle (happy cry), I notice the empty chair opposite me. I mean, I really notice it. It’s lack of a body, its missing presence. A space for somebody to share these moments with.
I think about the girl.
If I were to take her out on a date — supposing I could ever summon up such courage from the deepest, most romantic depths of Hell — it wouldn’t be to here. No, this isn’t quite first date material. The birthday party for screaming four year-olds a few booths across is evidence enough for that.
I know exactly where is, though.
It’s on my walk home, tucked right out of the way of any noise. A dirt track leads you along the edge of a wide expanse of rolling green fields, all the way to where the sunset kisses the edge of the sky. And there’s a lake. Only a small one, wedged right behind a smattering of pine-trees, stretched out enough so that you can see the blue waters poking through.
Positioned right at the edge there’s a small green cabin. At least, it looks small from the distance I see it in, but I guess even the entire Earth looks relatively small to the moon.
There’s a single large window in it’s roof, overlooking the water and I imagine you can probably see everything from up there. The yellow tractor parked patiently outside the neighbours field. The white blobs of sheep roaming up and down the trails of grass. Perhaps even me, a figure dressed in black, strolling home eager to stick the kettle on.
There’s a red life-ring and a small wooden dock jutting out into the lake. I’ve never ever seen anybody there. And over time it has become my potential place. Somewhere, I’ve decided, to take the future love of my life. Then it will become our place.
I’ll carry the wicker basket and she’ll carry the ratty throw and I’ll feed her Twix’s and she’ll pull out far too many books than is feasible to fit in one single handbag and then, with her gentle voice, she’ll read me her favourite chapter and I’ll kiss her just before she gets chance to finish it because it isn’t over, it won’t be, not there, not then.
That will be just the beginning.
