Threads in the Wind
Third.
I thought I would dream of Aislinn again that night, but I didn't. I couldn't sleep at all. Lying bitterly awake in the moody darkness, I knew I'd been stupid to think she would keep coming back to me. She was probably gone forever now. It made sense; she'd gotten me her message, so there wasn't really a point in hanging around any longer.
As I roamed fitfully around my cramped apartment, it suddenly occurred to me that I was lonely. This was a strange thing to realize, since I was alone for nearly all of my time. Yet there I was, irrationally, helplessly, miserably lonely. And I had no one to call, nor did I have anywhere to go. I could have gone for another walk, but it was raining that night and walking in the rain, in the darkness, after hours, utterly friendless, would have made me just too unbearably sad. I sighed, straightening up spaces that were better left messy for lack of anything better to do.
My one hobby, I guess I could say, besides observation was collecting lost items. You'd be surprised at how much stuff people lose every day. There are the usuals, which I see all the time - loose change, receipts, bus passes, and sticks of gum. Then there are the slightly less common - sunglasses, writing utensils, hats, and makeup. After that come the relatively rare - books, cell phones, and articles of clothing. And finally there are the extraordinary - I found a box of paints once, and another time, an aging iguana in a rusted cage. At one time, I'd found a large stack of diaries in a back alley, but I suspect the owner had fully intended to get rid of them. I usually take these lost things home with me, unless they're really just trash or there's a definite way to get them back to who owned them before. But there almost never is. My apartment is full up with sad, lost things, and it's wonderful and it's frightening.
I blew the dust off a wind-up dinosaur on a shelf and straightened out a string of bright, childish beads next to it. The rain came down harder, drowning out my thoughts, but making the emptiness echo louder. The apartment below mine had been unoccupied since before I moved in, so I didn't know if that had anything to do with it or not. But maybe it was really everything that was empty, not just the apartment. All the people were hollow, dreaming hollow dreams in their hollow homes. All the stones were hollow, and the stars were too. Everything. And never was this more piercing than when it rained and the entire world sent out echoes into the empty sky. But this was simultaneously the greatest farce of all, for even the raindrops themselves were hollow.
These thoughts were still running through my head as I sat on the bus the following morning, watching people board and paying extra attention to them lest another girl should get on that made me feel as blind and transfixed as the one yesterday had. Even though I had to admit I'd probably never see her again, I still anticipated. A mother boarded, her frazzled hair held back in a lopsided ponytail, dragging a small child behind her. She had dark circles under her eyes, something she'd tried but not quite succeeded in concealing with makeup. Her slacks were wrinkled, and there was a stain on the cuff of her shirt. The child wore a t-shirt with dinosaurs on it, the picture starting to crack. The laces on one of his shoes were beginning to come undone, and the ends were already frayed and held together vainly with masking tape. Both their eyes were hollow, the dinosaurs were hollow, and the small crescent moon inked on the mother's briefly exposed ankle was hollow as well. Then, all of a sudden, a large, vivid sunflower passed before my eyes, and as many different ways I could think for it to be hollow, none of them worked.
I blinked. My eyes focused, and I saw it was her. The dark-haired girl with the sunflower bag. And somehow, everything about her refused to be hollow. Again, I can't explain it, but it was like the yawning emptiness in everything suddenly shot away at her presence like frightened, scattering insects. I glanced back at the mother and her child. She was rubbing her neck and disinterestedly reading over the person in front of her's shoulder. The kid was breathing onto the window glass and imprinting a loose fist onto the resulting fog. The woman had one foot in the aisle, slightly turned out, and I could again see the tiny tattoo on her ankle. What used to sing with hollowness now held more meaning than I could understand. And yet again, the dark-haired girl with her sunflower bag had me scared out of my wits.
I watched her with what felt like twice the intensity of yesterday. She took a seat near the middle of the bus and gazed placidly out the window. I felt self-conscious for staring at her, and, of course, stalker-like, but what else could I do? Not look at her? An old woman sitting near me rang for her stop. As she stood up to leave, the grocery bags she was carrying broke and spilled bags of produce and microwave dinners over the floor of the bus. She sighed and began to laboriously pick up her food. The passengers around her stared, but otherwise stayed rooted to where they were. I wanted to help the woman, but found I couldn't move from my spot either. Why was this? When had we all become like this? I knew this wasn't supposed to happen, but I could do nothing about it but acknowledge it.
Suddenly I noticed the dark-haired girl hurrying down the aisle. She knelt down next to the old woman and helped her pick up her groceries, catching runaway cans of soup. The old woman thanked her profusely, but then remarked with a sigh that there was no way she could carry all of it now. The girl instantly offered to help her, and the old woman bashfully accepted and thanked her more. As the pair gathered groceries into their arms and headed out off the bus, I felt a sudden urgency rising in me, though I couldn't say for what. It increased when the doors shut and the bus moved on; I felt as if I were losing something important. And all of a sudden I knew. I rang for the next stop and waited impatiently, fervently hoping they hadn't gone in the opposite direction. When the bus stopped, I rushed down the aisle and bounded down the stairs, scanning the sidewalk for the dark-haired girl and the old woman. I saw them farther up the sidewalk, headed in my direction, so I lingered by a storefront and pretended to be calling someone on my phone.
When they passed, I counted to ten and followed them. I have never felt as much a stalker as I did then, but somehow I was able to move past that. Maybe I was just a horny male (although I couldn't see how that would work seeing as how I was incapable of love) but it was the girl's own fault she was so magnetic. And then I realized it. Standing in the middle of the sidewalk, people walking into my back, I became conscious of the fact that this girl was the first person ever I could truly come to love. Not the first person I did love, since I didn't actually know that much about her, but the possibility was definitely there. I could love her. I was capable of loving her. Even though I'd never truly loved anything and had no experience with it, I knew I would try with everything I had to love her.
The fragile thread in my chest lifted again, as if by an invisible wind. Except when I examined it closer, I saw that it was really a tiny, intricate braid of shining threads.
The old woman's house wasn't that far, and she again heaped thanks on the girl for her help. The girl blushed, and said it was her pleasure. She went on her way after exchanging goodbyes. I counted to ten again, and followed her. She wound along the streets, sometimes walking with a determined stride, other times lagging and stopping to window-shop or pick the tiny flowers that grew from between the cracks in the sidewalk. I always made sure to stay a far enough distance away so that she wouldn't notice, but still near enough for me to pick her out from the crowd with relative ease. At one point, I realized that I was late for work, so I called them and murmured something about the bus breaking down. Eventually, the dark-haired girl entered a small fabric shop, which was where I assumed she worked. The bells on the door jingled with her entrance, and a greeting floated out, which I was just able to catch before the door shut. "Hannah! Hello!" a voice said.
"Hello, Hannah," I whispered, trying her name. The delicate threads inside of me trembled like a violin string.
As I roamed fitfully around my cramped apartment, it suddenly occurred to me that I was lonely. This was a strange thing to realize, since I was alone for nearly all of my time. Yet there I was, irrationally, helplessly, miserably lonely. And I had no one to call, nor did I have anywhere to go. I could have gone for another walk, but it was raining that night and walking in the rain, in the darkness, after hours, utterly friendless, would have made me just too unbearably sad. I sighed, straightening up spaces that were better left messy for lack of anything better to do.
My one hobby, I guess I could say, besides observation was collecting lost items. You'd be surprised at how much stuff people lose every day. There are the usuals, which I see all the time - loose change, receipts, bus passes, and sticks of gum. Then there are the slightly less common - sunglasses, writing utensils, hats, and makeup. After that come the relatively rare - books, cell phones, and articles of clothing. And finally there are the extraordinary - I found a box of paints once, and another time, an aging iguana in a rusted cage. At one time, I'd found a large stack of diaries in a back alley, but I suspect the owner had fully intended to get rid of them. I usually take these lost things home with me, unless they're really just trash or there's a definite way to get them back to who owned them before. But there almost never is. My apartment is full up with sad, lost things, and it's wonderful and it's frightening.
I blew the dust off a wind-up dinosaur on a shelf and straightened out a string of bright, childish beads next to it. The rain came down harder, drowning out my thoughts, but making the emptiness echo louder. The apartment below mine had been unoccupied since before I moved in, so I didn't know if that had anything to do with it or not. But maybe it was really everything that was empty, not just the apartment. All the people were hollow, dreaming hollow dreams in their hollow homes. All the stones were hollow, and the stars were too. Everything. And never was this more piercing than when it rained and the entire world sent out echoes into the empty sky. But this was simultaneously the greatest farce of all, for even the raindrops themselves were hollow.
These thoughts were still running through my head as I sat on the bus the following morning, watching people board and paying extra attention to them lest another girl should get on that made me feel as blind and transfixed as the one yesterday had. Even though I had to admit I'd probably never see her again, I still anticipated. A mother boarded, her frazzled hair held back in a lopsided ponytail, dragging a small child behind her. She had dark circles under her eyes, something she'd tried but not quite succeeded in concealing with makeup. Her slacks were wrinkled, and there was a stain on the cuff of her shirt. The child wore a t-shirt with dinosaurs on it, the picture starting to crack. The laces on one of his shoes were beginning to come undone, and the ends were already frayed and held together vainly with masking tape. Both their eyes were hollow, the dinosaurs were hollow, and the small crescent moon inked on the mother's briefly exposed ankle was hollow as well. Then, all of a sudden, a large, vivid sunflower passed before my eyes, and as many different ways I could think for it to be hollow, none of them worked.
I blinked. My eyes focused, and I saw it was her. The dark-haired girl with the sunflower bag. And somehow, everything about her refused to be hollow. Again, I can't explain it, but it was like the yawning emptiness in everything suddenly shot away at her presence like frightened, scattering insects. I glanced back at the mother and her child. She was rubbing her neck and disinterestedly reading over the person in front of her's shoulder. The kid was breathing onto the window glass and imprinting a loose fist onto the resulting fog. The woman had one foot in the aisle, slightly turned out, and I could again see the tiny tattoo on her ankle. What used to sing with hollowness now held more meaning than I could understand. And yet again, the dark-haired girl with her sunflower bag had me scared out of my wits.
I watched her with what felt like twice the intensity of yesterday. She took a seat near the middle of the bus and gazed placidly out the window. I felt self-conscious for staring at her, and, of course, stalker-like, but what else could I do? Not look at her? An old woman sitting near me rang for her stop. As she stood up to leave, the grocery bags she was carrying broke and spilled bags of produce and microwave dinners over the floor of the bus. She sighed and began to laboriously pick up her food. The passengers around her stared, but otherwise stayed rooted to where they were. I wanted to help the woman, but found I couldn't move from my spot either. Why was this? When had we all become like this? I knew this wasn't supposed to happen, but I could do nothing about it but acknowledge it.
Suddenly I noticed the dark-haired girl hurrying down the aisle. She knelt down next to the old woman and helped her pick up her groceries, catching runaway cans of soup. The old woman thanked her profusely, but then remarked with a sigh that there was no way she could carry all of it now. The girl instantly offered to help her, and the old woman bashfully accepted and thanked her more. As the pair gathered groceries into their arms and headed out off the bus, I felt a sudden urgency rising in me, though I couldn't say for what. It increased when the doors shut and the bus moved on; I felt as if I were losing something important. And all of a sudden I knew. I rang for the next stop and waited impatiently, fervently hoping they hadn't gone in the opposite direction. When the bus stopped, I rushed down the aisle and bounded down the stairs, scanning the sidewalk for the dark-haired girl and the old woman. I saw them farther up the sidewalk, headed in my direction, so I lingered by a storefront and pretended to be calling someone on my phone.
When they passed, I counted to ten and followed them. I have never felt as much a stalker as I did then, but somehow I was able to move past that. Maybe I was just a horny male (although I couldn't see how that would work seeing as how I was incapable of love) but it was the girl's own fault she was so magnetic. And then I realized it. Standing in the middle of the sidewalk, people walking into my back, I became conscious of the fact that this girl was the first person ever I could truly come to love. Not the first person I did love, since I didn't actually know that much about her, but the possibility was definitely there. I could love her. I was capable of loving her. Even though I'd never truly loved anything and had no experience with it, I knew I would try with everything I had to love her.
The fragile thread in my chest lifted again, as if by an invisible wind. Except when I examined it closer, I saw that it was really a tiny, intricate braid of shining threads.
The old woman's house wasn't that far, and she again heaped thanks on the girl for her help. The girl blushed, and said it was her pleasure. She went on her way after exchanging goodbyes. I counted to ten again, and followed her. She wound along the streets, sometimes walking with a determined stride, other times lagging and stopping to window-shop or pick the tiny flowers that grew from between the cracks in the sidewalk. I always made sure to stay a far enough distance away so that she wouldn't notice, but still near enough for me to pick her out from the crowd with relative ease. At one point, I realized that I was late for work, so I called them and murmured something about the bus breaking down. Eventually, the dark-haired girl entered a small fabric shop, which was where I assumed she worked. The bells on the door jingled with her entrance, and a greeting floated out, which I was just able to catch before the door shut. "Hannah! Hello!" a voice said.
"Hello, Hannah," I whispered, trying her name. The delicate threads inside of me trembled like a violin string.
♠ ♠ ♠
As always, tell me any thoughts.