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- Jul 24, 2009
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A tinge of cold hits the tip of my nose.
I've lost count of how many times I've raised my head. But every time I see the same tedious suburbia that's persisted for what seems like hours. I wipe the water off my nose and peer up at the clouds. The grey is overwhelming to the point that I'm not sure where the sky and the horizon meet. Patience is said to be a virtue. I say the public transport system is irredeemably inept.
Something bright appears in the corner of my eye. It's a woman, or rather a woman's face radiated by the light of her mobile phone. I glimpse at her - she's attractive. Too attractive. You're disrupting the sheer monotony of my surroundings. You're perfect, and it's unnerving. I'm not going to look at you.
The sound of her light pacing ceases. She's behind me by perhaps only a couple metres, but I'm not going to look.
God, even when her eyes are unflinchingly transfixed to a screen she's per--fuck me. Oh well, might as well keep my gaze. An unreasonably cold raindrop falls onto my head, harshly breaking the numbness of my body. More and more droplets descend. Within the timespan of a few seconds I go from uneventfully dry to miserably wet.
"Hey, I've got an umbrella." A delicate voice assaults me from behind. As with all ambushes, the best course of action is to ignore them and everything will be fi--
"You can come under if you want." Resistance is masculine. But I'm really wet. I cautiously turn around. Sure enough, she possesses an umbrella. Should I or should I not go? A nanosecond passes before a tiny reserve of bravado is overwhelmed by the pleas of my drowning underwear. Fine. You win. I accept your invitation. In fact, here's a little gratitude.
"Thanks." She stands right beside me and yet the murmur still fails to carry over to her ear. Her gaze remains on her device, completely ignorant of my attempt at communication. One hand rigorously interacts with the screen of her phone whilst the other holds up the only thing between me and pneumonia. My saviour is a small lady intoxicated by a product of the digital age.
“Shit, my phone’s out of battery.” She makes the assumption that I care. “Can I borrow yours to make a really important call?” And so the temptress reveals her plan; she attempts to use me for my possessions. So why am I surrendering to her? She’s not that perfect… is she?
“Thank you so much.” For the first time, nothing illuminates her face except for a slight smile. “Wow, this phone is really… vintage.” What a superficial little idiot.
“Hey babe, I’m still waiting for the bus. I’ll be there soon.” Why did my heart just deflate a miniscule amount?
“Yeah, I’m using a stranger’s phone. How were her results?” I’ve never before realised how unique the sound of individual droplets are. There’s ‘pid’, ‘pud’, and the occasional ‘plop’.
“Speak to me in English. What does that mean?” An element of stress resided within her speech, followed by a long pause.
“Are you sure that’s what they said, ‘terminal’?” Her lips began quivering. It’s not that cold, woman.
“Oh.” She barely manages to sound the syllable, almost as if she was suffocating. The call abruptly ends.
“Thanks.” The lone word, faintly audible amidst a cacophony of torrential downpour, escapes her mouth. She looks up at me, and I down to her. A sudden surge of sympathy rushes through me, as a forced smile causes a tear to depart from the bottom of her cheekbone, leaving behind a lonely trail from her eye. Her hand briefly touches mine as she returns my phone. Warmth. Her face is still beautiful, but the illusion of perfection has been grounded by the normalcy of her melancholy. She’s imperfect, just like me.
Moments of nothingness begin to pass. An occasional car drives past us. An occasional tear falls to the pavement below us, its mark so identical to a raindrop’s, yet so isolated from the rain. I want her to know that I’m not cold or inanimate, that I can connect and that I want to connect. I want her to know--
“Life’s a bitch.” The statement took us both by surprise, I think. I’d never guess she was the cynical type, yet her remark is strangely inviting. She wants a response. There is an eternity of silence as a thousand decisions and revisions speed through my mind, but I’m determined to defeat my own solitude.
“A bitch can’t ever be fixed… but it can be tamed.” Oh god. Oh god. What a stupid fucking statement, you abhorrent exile. Your one chance of conversation is gone. Look at her reaction, she’s…she's laughing?
“I’d never guess you’re the poetic type.” Her lack of utter revulsion is nothing short of miraculous. A warm reassurance in her laughter compels me to continue.
I've lost count of how many times I've raised my head. But every time I see the same tedious suburbia that's persisted for what seems like hours. I wipe the water off my nose and peer up at the clouds. The grey is overwhelming to the point that I'm not sure where the sky and the horizon meet. Patience is said to be a virtue. I say the public transport system is irredeemably inept.
Something bright appears in the corner of my eye. It's a woman, or rather a woman's face radiated by the light of her mobile phone. I glimpse at her - she's attractive. Too attractive. You're disrupting the sheer monotony of my surroundings. You're perfect, and it's unnerving. I'm not going to look at you.
The sound of her light pacing ceases. She's behind me by perhaps only a couple metres, but I'm not going to look.
God, even when her eyes are unflinchingly transfixed to a screen she's per--fuck me. Oh well, might as well keep my gaze. An unreasonably cold raindrop falls onto my head, harshly breaking the numbness of my body. More and more droplets descend. Within the timespan of a few seconds I go from uneventfully dry to miserably wet.
"Hey, I've got an umbrella." A delicate voice assaults me from behind. As with all ambushes, the best course of action is to ignore them and everything will be fi--
"You can come under if you want." Resistance is masculine. But I'm really wet. I cautiously turn around. Sure enough, she possesses an umbrella. Should I or should I not go? A nanosecond passes before a tiny reserve of bravado is overwhelmed by the pleas of my drowning underwear. Fine. You win. I accept your invitation. In fact, here's a little gratitude.
"Thanks." She stands right beside me and yet the murmur still fails to carry over to her ear. Her gaze remains on her device, completely ignorant of my attempt at communication. One hand rigorously interacts with the screen of her phone whilst the other holds up the only thing between me and pneumonia. My saviour is a small lady intoxicated by a product of the digital age.
“Shit, my phone’s out of battery.” She makes the assumption that I care. “Can I borrow yours to make a really important call?” And so the temptress reveals her plan; she attempts to use me for my possessions. So why am I surrendering to her? She’s not that perfect… is she?
“Thank you so much.” For the first time, nothing illuminates her face except for a slight smile. “Wow, this phone is really… vintage.” What a superficial little idiot.
“Hey babe, I’m still waiting for the bus. I’ll be there soon.” Why did my heart just deflate a miniscule amount?
“Yeah, I’m using a stranger’s phone. How were her results?” I’ve never before realised how unique the sound of individual droplets are. There’s ‘pid’, ‘pud’, and the occasional ‘plop’.
“Speak to me in English. What does that mean?” An element of stress resided within her speech, followed by a long pause.
“Are you sure that’s what they said, ‘terminal’?” Her lips began quivering. It’s not that cold, woman.
“Oh.” She barely manages to sound the syllable, almost as if she was suffocating. The call abruptly ends.
“Thanks.” The lone word, faintly audible amidst a cacophony of torrential downpour, escapes her mouth. She looks up at me, and I down to her. A sudden surge of sympathy rushes through me, as a forced smile causes a tear to depart from the bottom of her cheekbone, leaving behind a lonely trail from her eye. Her hand briefly touches mine as she returns my phone. Warmth. Her face is still beautiful, but the illusion of perfection has been grounded by the normalcy of her melancholy. She’s imperfect, just like me.
Moments of nothingness begin to pass. An occasional car drives past us. An occasional tear falls to the pavement below us, its mark so identical to a raindrop’s, yet so isolated from the rain. I want her to know that I’m not cold or inanimate, that I can connect and that I want to connect. I want her to know--
“Life’s a bitch.” The statement took us both by surprise, I think. I’d never guess she was the cynical type, yet her remark is strangely inviting. She wants a response. There is an eternity of silence as a thousand decisions and revisions speed through my mind, but I’m determined to defeat my own solitude.
“A bitch can’t ever be fixed… but it can be tamed.” Oh god. Oh god. What a stupid fucking statement, you abhorrent exile. Your one chance of conversation is gone. Look at her reaction, she’s…she's laughing?
“I’d never guess you’re the poetic type.” Her lack of utter revulsion is nothing short of miraculous. A warm reassurance in her laughter compels me to continue.
