A Flashing of Eyes
Evening
“That’s enough,” decides Skye, jangling the money-filled paint can. The crowd has dissipated. Night is setting in. Boxes click shut as the vendors store away their wooden necklaces and feather earrings. Tourists drag their sandaled feet back towards their budget hotels. The sky is darkening, the sun sinking lowing, disappearing behind beads of clouds. A breeze wraps its cool hands around our shoulders and squeezes at our necks as we pack up the blanket and Skye’s guitar. We walk. The paint can jangles. A homeless man emerges from the disappearing shadows, his long bony hand brushing Skye’s jacket. I shudder. His eyes are so empty, his face so thin. Skye seems not the notice, reaching her own tiny hand out into the paint can. She hands him a rumpled one-dollar bill, its edges curling in, its vibrant green faded putrid gray. He accepts, silently, a trace of a smile flitting across his tired face. He has seen too much.
*******
The shop is dark. Little streams of grease outline the letters peeling on the windows: McKellan’s Salvage! Buy, Sell, Trade!!! The exclamation marks suggest that this is the most exciting statement ever made. Glassy-eyed dolls stare from beyond the black windows. I see the dusty covers of title less books, blue marbles, little rocking horses, high-backed chairs, rickety tables, dented street signs, African masks. A cool breeze cuts through my sweater and into my back. I draw my arms around myself, shivering.
Skye pushes the unwilling door open as if she has done this a thousand times before. A gust of musty air hits us. I cough, reluctant to enter the cavernous thrift store. A little silver bell chimes as our feet cross the dirty threshold. The bright chimes seem so out of place. An old man emerges from behind a dark green curtain. Dust falls to the floor as he pushes it aside and pads to the front of the shop. The door clangs shut behind us. The little bell is silenced. “Skye?” the man asks as if it were a question. He surveys us, his eyebrows rising, his face inquiring, smiling. “I’m here to pick it up,” Skye says, placing her hand on her bony hip. The man nods, understanding. We follow him through the green curtain to the back room.
*******
The old man unfolds the navy velvet slowly and deliberately. The guitar is deep chocolate brown, smooth and polished, its strings shining pale against the dark wood. I lift it slowly, carefully as I would a small child. I cradle the instrument to my chest, pressing my ear against its center, feeling its hollow heat beating. The wood is cool and smooth in my arms. I breathe in its scent, musty, sweet, alive. Reluctantly, I hand the instrument to Skye. “Wow…” is all I can manage for a moment. Then, I find the right words waiting on my tongue: “It’s so beautiful. I… I can’t wait to hear you play.” I smile. Skye places the guitar between my hands, like the first time on the beach when she taught me to play. She places my fingers over the strings. “No,” she says. I see a flash of gray sadness in her eyes, then it’s gone. “No,” she says again, “It’s not for me. It’s for you.”
We pay for the guitar with stray nickels, dimes, and quarters from the paint can. Skye bids the old man goodbye. We walk out of the warm shop and onto the cold, dusky street. I hug the black guitar case to my chest as we walk down the hill towards the subway station.
*******
“Why don’t you come to my house? We can try out the guitar and my mom will make dinner…”
“No!” Skye says too quickly. “No, I have to get home, right away.” We are standing on the sidewalk at the center of town. Night is closing in on us and I can taste winter in the air. The sky is stained red and purple, the last color before the clouds set in. I place my new guitar down at my feet. It lands on the rough ground with a thud. “Well,” I try, “we could go to your house.” Skye’s eyes darken. I see the ocean in them; I see the rising tide before the storm. And I see something else, something new. I see fear. Ignoring every instinct, I press on: “I’ve never been to your house, have I?” Skye’s eyes widen, she inhales sharply as if the air is hurting her lungs. “Skye,” I say, slowly, “what’s wrong? Why don’t we go to your house?” A strong breeze hits us. Skye’s jacket rustles, inflated by the wind. She looks strong and intimidating. The breeze dies. She shrinks. “No.” she says decisively, sharply. Her voice has that razor-edge again. It cuts into my mind, embedding itself there, engraving confusion. “No!” The word is definitive, frightening.
“Skye?” I ask, upset, confused. “What’s wrong?”
“Go home, Ellie. Go home.”
“But–”
“Just go home!”
She turns abruptly and walks away into the darkness. Her firm footsteps echo off the surrounding buildings. Involuntarily, her head turns back to look at me one more time. I see the trace of a tear sliding down her sandy cheek, a drop of seawater.
I am left alone, standing in the night.
*******
The shop is dark. Little streams of grease outline the letters peeling on the windows: McKellan’s Salvage! Buy, Sell, Trade!!! The exclamation marks suggest that this is the most exciting statement ever made. Glassy-eyed dolls stare from beyond the black windows. I see the dusty covers of title less books, blue marbles, little rocking horses, high-backed chairs, rickety tables, dented street signs, African masks. A cool breeze cuts through my sweater and into my back. I draw my arms around myself, shivering.
Skye pushes the unwilling door open as if she has done this a thousand times before. A gust of musty air hits us. I cough, reluctant to enter the cavernous thrift store. A little silver bell chimes as our feet cross the dirty threshold. The bright chimes seem so out of place. An old man emerges from behind a dark green curtain. Dust falls to the floor as he pushes it aside and pads to the front of the shop. The door clangs shut behind us. The little bell is silenced. “Skye?” the man asks as if it were a question. He surveys us, his eyebrows rising, his face inquiring, smiling. “I’m here to pick it up,” Skye says, placing her hand on her bony hip. The man nods, understanding. We follow him through the green curtain to the back room.
*******
The old man unfolds the navy velvet slowly and deliberately. The guitar is deep chocolate brown, smooth and polished, its strings shining pale against the dark wood. I lift it slowly, carefully as I would a small child. I cradle the instrument to my chest, pressing my ear against its center, feeling its hollow heat beating. The wood is cool and smooth in my arms. I breathe in its scent, musty, sweet, alive. Reluctantly, I hand the instrument to Skye. “Wow…” is all I can manage for a moment. Then, I find the right words waiting on my tongue: “It’s so beautiful. I… I can’t wait to hear you play.” I smile. Skye places the guitar between my hands, like the first time on the beach when she taught me to play. She places my fingers over the strings. “No,” she says. I see a flash of gray sadness in her eyes, then it’s gone. “No,” she says again, “It’s not for me. It’s for you.”
We pay for the guitar with stray nickels, dimes, and quarters from the paint can. Skye bids the old man goodbye. We walk out of the warm shop and onto the cold, dusky street. I hug the black guitar case to my chest as we walk down the hill towards the subway station.
*******
“Why don’t you come to my house? We can try out the guitar and my mom will make dinner…”
“No!” Skye says too quickly. “No, I have to get home, right away.” We are standing on the sidewalk at the center of town. Night is closing in on us and I can taste winter in the air. The sky is stained red and purple, the last color before the clouds set in. I place my new guitar down at my feet. It lands on the rough ground with a thud. “Well,” I try, “we could go to your house.” Skye’s eyes darken. I see the ocean in them; I see the rising tide before the storm. And I see something else, something new. I see fear. Ignoring every instinct, I press on: “I’ve never been to your house, have I?” Skye’s eyes widen, she inhales sharply as if the air is hurting her lungs. “Skye,” I say, slowly, “what’s wrong? Why don’t we go to your house?” A strong breeze hits us. Skye’s jacket rustles, inflated by the wind. She looks strong and intimidating. The breeze dies. She shrinks. “No.” she says decisively, sharply. Her voice has that razor-edge again. It cuts into my mind, embedding itself there, engraving confusion. “No!” The word is definitive, frightening.
“Skye?” I ask, upset, confused. “What’s wrong?”
“Go home, Ellie. Go home.”
“But–”
“Just go home!”
She turns abruptly and walks away into the darkness. Her firm footsteps echo off the surrounding buildings. Involuntarily, her head turns back to look at me one more time. I see the trace of a tear sliding down her sandy cheek, a drop of seawater.
I am left alone, standing in the night.