A Flashing of Eyes
Afternoon
A voice, like music. The distinct smell of chalky pancakes. The grind of tires against the roadway. The sensation of morning hits me slowly, working its way up through my body, one vertebrae, one little cell at a time. The sunlight is soft and smooth, catching the splatters of color on my walls, sheets of colored light spread out across the white carpet.
I realize: Skye is in my kitchen. I can hear her voice, the thump of her guitar against her back, the brush of her feet against the cool wood. I can almost see her bent-up smile, mischievous, unexpected. She is talking with my parents. I catch bits of words and hold them in my tired head:
“Won’t be gone long.”
“Coming back?”
“Before dark.”
“I suppose...”
Feet thunder up the stairs, harsh bullets penetrating the morning lull. She sprints into my room, her hair messy, her pants torn at both knees. She is carrying an empty paint can. San Francisco Gray it reads. I sit up in bed, the room sliding in and out of focus. I blink. There she is. Her eyes flash. She smiles, “Get up, Ellie.”
The way she says my name makes it sound important, as if Ellie were a queen or a movie star, with expensive sunglasses and a mansion on the beach… “Ellie, snap out of it! We’ve got a lot to do.” I fall back onto my pillows, groaning, giggling. She grabs my wrists and pulls me out of bed.
*******
We climb the stairs out of the Subway station. The Saturday streets are packed with tourists in their short-shorts and garishly lettered tank tops. The air is smoky and red, as if a wildfire was raging downtown, devouring city hall. Cable cars struggle up the hills and shopping bags rustle in peoples’ hands. We walk briskly through the sea of eyes. Skye stops in front of a group of street vendors. They scream at the passing crowd in broken English, their hands cutting at the air, their wares glittering in the hazy light filtering through the fog. Skye opens her guitar case and pulls out a blue blanket. With deliberation, she spreads it out on the dirty ground, setting the empty paint can out in front of it. Her hands smooth over its linty surface.
We sit, and Skye begins to play. At once, the sounds of the city are silenced. I hear only the hypnotic glide of her finger across the strings, her voice: scratchy, soft, and beautiful. I smile and shake my head. Her eyes glitter in my direction, blue and convoluted. I hear sadness in her voice, a sadness that’s always been there underneath it all. The melancholy undertones only add to the beauty of her song. I close my eyes and listen and wonder.
I am interrupted by the clanging of change against the bottom of the paint can. I raise my head slowly and open my pale eyes. People have gathered to listen. I join Skye’s song, tentatively at first, then stronger, adding harmony, high and soft. It fits, coming to my mouth evenly and easily. I stare straight into the sea of eyes before us and sing.
I realize: Skye is in my kitchen. I can hear her voice, the thump of her guitar against her back, the brush of her feet against the cool wood. I can almost see her bent-up smile, mischievous, unexpected. She is talking with my parents. I catch bits of words and hold them in my tired head:
“Won’t be gone long.”
“Coming back?”
“Before dark.”
“I suppose...”
Feet thunder up the stairs, harsh bullets penetrating the morning lull. She sprints into my room, her hair messy, her pants torn at both knees. She is carrying an empty paint can. San Francisco Gray it reads. I sit up in bed, the room sliding in and out of focus. I blink. There she is. Her eyes flash. She smiles, “Get up, Ellie.”
The way she says my name makes it sound important, as if Ellie were a queen or a movie star, with expensive sunglasses and a mansion on the beach… “Ellie, snap out of it! We’ve got a lot to do.” I fall back onto my pillows, groaning, giggling. She grabs my wrists and pulls me out of bed.
*******
We climb the stairs out of the Subway station. The Saturday streets are packed with tourists in their short-shorts and garishly lettered tank tops. The air is smoky and red, as if a wildfire was raging downtown, devouring city hall. Cable cars struggle up the hills and shopping bags rustle in peoples’ hands. We walk briskly through the sea of eyes. Skye stops in front of a group of street vendors. They scream at the passing crowd in broken English, their hands cutting at the air, their wares glittering in the hazy light filtering through the fog. Skye opens her guitar case and pulls out a blue blanket. With deliberation, she spreads it out on the dirty ground, setting the empty paint can out in front of it. Her hands smooth over its linty surface.
We sit, and Skye begins to play. At once, the sounds of the city are silenced. I hear only the hypnotic glide of her finger across the strings, her voice: scratchy, soft, and beautiful. I smile and shake my head. Her eyes glitter in my direction, blue and convoluted. I hear sadness in her voice, a sadness that’s always been there underneath it all. The melancholy undertones only add to the beauty of her song. I close my eyes and listen and wonder.
I am interrupted by the clanging of change against the bottom of the paint can. I raise my head slowly and open my pale eyes. People have gathered to listen. I join Skye’s song, tentatively at first, then stronger, adding harmony, high and soft. It fits, coming to my mouth evenly and easily. I stare straight into the sea of eyes before us and sing.