She sits in the small garden, nestled amidst independent book stores and boutiques. Every time she had left her hotel she had seen the hydrangeas growing in a cluster, lining the edges of this sanctuary. She longed to occupy the single bench awkwardly placed facing the revolving doors so she could be hypnotized by the endless stream of murmurous trench coats that once served as a wall against the nightly drizzle. Every time she left her hotel, the bench was taken up by a tired mother –or was it a sister – watching her child shatter the pure, unadulterated bliss emanating from the unkempt grass.
The Stolen Bench
She sits there now. She got here first. The slivers of sunrise reflecting on shop windows tell her the woman will be arriving soon. She longs for the disappointment, perhaps even betrayal, in the woman's eyes as she encounters a lonely girl occupying her spot. The bench is hers now, until someone takes it away. It's been far too long since she's had anything of her own. The streets are quiet; at this hour she might as well own the city. She pictures the people's faces as they arrive to work and find an external presence lurking in the shadows, everything placed slightly to the left. The things they thought they knew, their certainty, gone. The clothes on the racks, those dressing the mannequins, the lone pieces forgotten at the back of the store, she wears them all.
It seems like she has all the time in the world, but
by manu
only moments pass before her tranquil contemplation is breached. The engine is now running, the first person spit from the mouth of the beast. She wonders if she believes in ghosts as the door keeps spinning long after the figure has rushed by. Moments later, a small man does not leave when he reaches the street, instead takes two turns inside the confines of the entryway. She wonders what he's waiting for, but before she can find out he's gone. The poor thing can have no rest: as soon as it stops, someone else pushes it around and around like a ballerina in a music box. The constant movement hypnotizes her, for a time. Only when the door finally stops, as a woman holds it in place, does she stop looking. Finally taking notice of her surroundings, she now finds crowded streets, lines in front of shops, children walking around, dripping ice cream cones crushed in their freakishly small hands.
The mother hasn't come today, or perhaps she did and was swallowed by the flow of people. Perhaps she spotted the lonely girl sitting on her bench and realized she had lost. The special place she went to everyday was no longer that. The garden was not a place only she and her child knew. Now the lonely girl sat there staring blankly ahead. She feels pride when she thinks of how devastated the mother was. Does that make her a bad person? She can't help it. Her heart swells with the thought of disrupting someone's routine, of being a small bump in the road, a reason for the day to be remembered. Her longing to have an impact borders on pathetic, but nothing fills her more than getting into people's minds. Their discomfort makes her feel something.
Someone speaks beside her, a soundtrack for the scene playing out in her mind. It speaks again, bringing her out of her daze. She turns her head to meet the most ordinary eyes. Dead, dark, and dull, they manage to pull her out of her body. It feels as if he is the one in her mind. It feels like the first move of a dangerous game. She looks further, eyes the specimen from head to toe. Once her assessment is complete she is brought back to the eyes, now certain she will despise this man forever. His gaze is locked on her, awaiting an answer to his unheard question. Upon the repetition she feels the words flowing, but still doesn't understand; everything spoken in this country just sounds like music. In a fleeting attempt at solitude, she ventured into the unknown,
told him to Go Away.
Did he even understand her? He laughed, responding in that melodic way only strangers seem to master:
Why? He pushes.
She tries to ignore him, keeping her eyes low, shrugging her shoulders lightly, saying she wants to be alone.
Why?
She tells him to Go Away again.
No.
No? He was daring her, pushing her buttons. She could listen to him, or leave herself. Either way, he won. She couldn't let that happen. She begins to feel desperate. Resorting to pleading, insisting that sitting here alone is all she wants, all she needs. In her day of rebellion, he has made her reach for politeness. Man 1, Girl 0.
Again: Why?
He sits down. She forces out a Because from behind her teeth. She gets up.
"I find when I want to be alone, I just want to be alone together" is his response.
He joins her as she stands, the curves and sharp edges of his accent slashing away her resolve. This doesn't feel right, she should go. Win or lose, she needs to leave. Her feet disagree; her pride acting as glue, sticking her in place.
"Well, I find when I want to be alone, I just want to be alone," she retorts softly.
He laughs. She hates to admit it, but it's a beautiful sound. He extends his hand, says his name. Once again, she allows politeness to win. She shakes it, feeling the moisture of his sweaty palms.
And what's your name?
The curious glint in his eyes matches the challenge in hers. She tells him he'll find out eventually. He smiles at that, intrigued.
Had she eaten today? No. He knows a nice little spot a couple of blocks down.
She loves the way he says ‘little,’ so quaint!
Do they serve coffee? Yes. She asks him to lead the way.