One Shot: En Passant
Author's Notes (Defies Usual Logic With Its Relevance)
1. For non chess aficionados, an explanation of En passant: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/En_passant
2. Warning: Character death in this story. I don't like it, but I take responsibility for it.
Disclaimer: Bianca and Maggie belong to AMC/ABC. No profit/money being made from their use here. Connie and Larry are figments of my imagination.
Rating: R for themes. Please read responsibly.
Feedback: Greatly appreciated, especially if it isn't rotten tomatoes!
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EN PASSANT: BETTER THAT THAN THE FOOL'S GAMBIT
When you’re on a job like this, the hours seem to meld into one another; the only thing keeping me sane is my chessboard. My mother taught me how to play chess when I was ten, and I have never looked back. On average, I play about eight games a day, each lasting at least forty-five minutes. Unless, it’s a bad day, and I whip out an unusual gambit.
It’s more than just a hobby; it’s an obsession, and, most times, I play both sides, thereby eliminating the need for any and all inadequate companions. If you can beat me at chess, I will give you my soul. The only person to ever beat me was, ironically enough, my mother. And, I figured I’ve given her enough of myself to keep my soul, thanks very much.
I like my job, and I like my work place. Sure there are only a few of the small, square white tiles that aren’t chipped, and yes the chairs are ancient, but the washers and dryers gleam in their efficiency. And, let’s not forget the huge windows, with the neon-painted ad that guarantees the lowest prices for laundry in town. In San Francisco, that’s a deal that people need, and so we’re always busy.
Naturally, the weekends are busiest, and I spend the hours making sure the change dispenser remains stocked. It seems trivial, but without that change machine, this job would suck. Weekdays are less busy, Mondays being the least and Wednesdays being the most.
Unlike the weekend, the weekdays’ hours tick by agonizingly slowly, without my notice or permission, on the ancient clock hanging high on the wall. I hate the weeks because, apart from my games, it’s not overly challenging. However, after that one fateful Tuesday, the time of 6:30pm is an entirely different matter. After that Tuesday, sometimes I think that I spend the preceding hours in a haze of anticipation, frenetically chewing Juicy Fruit (none of that Spearmint crap for me).
That Tuesday, when I saw her for the first time. It wasn’t particularly remarkable, but I, somehow, knew she was going stir something crazy within me. I just knew it, just like I knew that the Spice Girls were going to be the next big thing way back when.
Pawn to King 3. Most people who come in here are on the clock, like that day, when she, harried woman that she was, used machine #104. She came in here, just rushed in like a tornado, breathless in her double-blended, silk-mix Jil Sander suit, which was impeccable except for the right pant leg, which had a bright, wet blotch of what I strongly suspect to be Raspberry Kool Aid.
She was in here for exactly fourteen minutes and thirty seconds (speed rinse cycle), and then she was gone, and I remember holding my breath just watching her move with such speed, intent and precision. Not a wasted move, but certainly not without grace. And I just happened to notice that as she waved a breezy arc of her hand at me in goodbye, even as she pushed the door with the other, that there was no ring on the finger that counted. Now, I’m a pretty observant kid, still something should’ve tipped me off that I noticed that about her. But, that first sighting really didn’t stir much inside; it was more of a sifting of the rubble.
Knight to Bishop 6. The second time was the one that got to me. It was Saturday, the twenty-second of February, and it was exactly 5:30pm. I almost wouldn’t have recognized her if it weren’t for that ol’ smile-and-wave combo; she was dressed in the old-school 501 jeans, which had a cut across the right leg, and a loose t-shirt.
I’ve read a lot of trashy romance novels during my twenty-seven years, and I’ve never felt that heart-stopping, light-headed, breathless lurch that all those authors go on and on about. Till now, that is. I couldn’t decide whether I preferred her in Sander or in Levi’s; she was devastating to me in both.
I can make conversation when necessary, about any topic really, but when she breezed in that day, carrying a sack of what I assume to be laundry, and her glossy lips bowed upwards at me, with just a hint of straight, white teeth, and her eyes, kinder and sharper than my own, pierced through me, I knew what it was to lose power of all your faculties. I was a deaf, mute, senile twenty-seven year old.
By the time I had processed all of this, she’s moved on to the machines, back to #104. Somehow, through this unfamiliar and unprecedented haze in my mind, the realization that I’ve probably been staring at her with this glazed, dilated expression sinks through. I quickly avert my eyes; I’ve given away too much already. I glance at her again, and she’s got her headphones on, and is moving her hips in a fashion that should be illegal, as she loads her clothes.
Okay, two can play at this game. I finger the bottom of my sweatshirt, and pull it off, exposing my tight tank top.
Queen to Knight 4. I go back to my chessboard; if my instincts are right, then she’ll need change sometime in the very near future.
Just as I’m about to take White’s pawn in a truly inspired move, I see a shadow fall over the board. I look up and I’m able to breathe only because I’ve been rehearsing my breathing for the past ten minutes. Her eyes are a very dark brown, and they have golden flecks.
Bishop to Knight 6. She looks at me, for just a moment, establishing eye contact, and then smiled for another moment, and I realize that all my rehearsals are for naught. I have a favorite painting: David Caspar Friedrich's "The Sea of Fog."
When I first saw that painting, I knew that someone on this innocent planet had known what it was like to be me. It was connection of empathy, at first sight. When she smiled at me that day in the laundromat, I knew somehow felt that tension felt between kindred spirits. I'd never met one of those before.
Obviously, these thoughts are hitting me at lightning speed because she’s now talking to me, and I’m fighting the urge to shake my head to clear the sound of blood rush inside.
“Hi.” She says, and it’s a low and soft and intimate and a little rough at the sides.
I’m not yet up to par, so instead of trying to elocute a clear response, I just nod and smile a smile that I hope isn’t goofy or crazed. It seems to work, because she hasn’t fled, and she’s saying more, “Do you have change for three dollars?”
I realize that I have to start speaking, or she’ll assume that I really am mute, “Yea, sure. Just a minute.”
She rewards me with another smile, and I can’t look because I know she’s waiting for her change, and I don’t have time for detailed fantasies right now.
So, I turn to the register, and pull out a new stack of quarters encased in thick, brown paper wrapping. I break the seal, and I’ve got the coins in my hands in less than a minute, which I hope she notices. Yes, I’ve got strong and talented fingers. She hands me three crumpled dollar bills, and her index finger touches the point where my thumb meets my palm, and I manage not to go numb.
I hold the twelve quarters in my palm, and I drop them into her outstretched palm, my little finger grazing her palm. At that exact moment of contact, I look up into her eyes.
She’s watching me, and she says, “Thank you.” Either her voice just got a tad lower, or I’m going insane. I’m tempted to go with the latter at this point.
She glances at my chessboard, and I wonder what she thinks of my moves. She looks back at me, right between the eyes, and says in a clear, luminescent voice, “Queen to Queen 7. Checkmate.” I looked at the board, and realized she was right. Another quick smile and she’s gone back to #104 and her headphones. I reassemble the pieces on my board, and it’s a passing thought that this was the quickest game I’ve ever played.
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The week, mercifully, goes by in a flash, and before I know it I’ve balanced the books for this month, and it’s Saturday again. I’m wearing my favorite clubbing T-shirt, the only piece of Roberto Cavalli party wear I could afford. It’s tight, and flashy; I have a date tonight.
It’s the momentous fourth date; it’s when you know whether a relationship is at all possible, or not. I feel like it’s a life-defining moment, and that’s probably because I’m falling love with someone after more than three years of avoiding emotional entanglements with those I have sex with.
Larry’s come in today because #104 is having problems, and he likes to fix his babies (as he calls them) himself. By trade, he’s a car mechanic, but that was before his paternal uncle died, and left Larry, the family’s only living heir, the laundromat. It was called Benny’s, and it used to make anticipated monthly losses. Larry attributes that to the name, and once he changed it, the profits have risen by 60%. Larry’s wife, Connie, however, credits me with the turnaround.
Connie is forty-nine years old, and is my godsend; she brings me mouth-watering Italian food everyday for dinner. She says that I don’t eat enough and if I don’t want to faint or, worse yet, disappear into thin air, and if I’m too scatterbrained to remember to eat, then goddamit, she’s going to step in and regulate. But, she does much more than provide my dinners; she’s my part-time therapist and mother figure.
I wonder how my mother would feel if she knew that I was closer to an old, rotund, Italian woman who knows more about me than she ever could. It’s 7pm, and in walks Connie, punctual as usual. I smile at her in welcome, and her eyebrows climb into her hairline as she takes in my outfit. She wastes no time on chitchat, and cuts to the bone, “What the hell are you wearing?”
I try not to blush, as I realize that she’s never seen me in anything other than my sweatshirt and baggy jeans. She probably didn’t know that I had a size four figure underneath it all, and she certainly didn’t expect to see showing my assets, as they were, at work. I try to stave off her die-hard curiosity, “I ran out of clothes.”
Okay, so it’s a lame excuse, but I hadn’t remembered that Connie would see me like this.
She gives me the look that tells me that says not only am I a bad liar and that she wasn’t born yesterday but also that I’d better spill the beans in the next thirty seconds or she’s going to have to hurt me. I don’t know why I’m holding out against her; she’s my closest friend, and my confidante. Maybe because I’ve always, successfully, avoided telling her about my sexual proclivities, and today I’ve lost the war because it’d be obvious to even a fool as to why I’m dressed like this for work. And Connie is nobody’s fool.
“Uh, I’m sorta waiting for someone to show.”
There’s a ten second pause as she realizes that I’m not referring to a friend, but to someone. Suddenly, there’s that delightedly devilish and devious look that older Italian woman have patented, and I know she’s smelt blood. “Oh, really??”
And I’m tempted to tell her in that wounded tone that I have that she shouldn’t ask. Because the pain of remembered past intimacies is a place that I’ve always chosen not to visit. But, if I were honest, I would admit that that doesn’t stop me from remembering; it’s one of those cases where if Mohammed won’t go the mountain…
Then, it hits me that maybe she’d be okay with it, that maybe she’d still want to know more, and she’ll get into the nooks and crannies and get it all from me. And, maybe, it’s for the best, and I’ve trusted her with so much of myself that she has to be fine with this.
“Just this…girl…” I say, and trail off, waiting for it to sink in.
Not a facial muscle moves, and it’s one of the longest twenty seconds I’ve known, and then she smiles gently and nods. I don’t know how to interpret that, and my throat is dry. She unwraps the aluminum foil that keeps my dinner warm and gently pushes it towards me on the counter even as she hands me my fork. I accept it, and look down at the food, and am helpless to smile; it’s my favorite of her garlic bread (which she makes from scratch) and her famous Fettuccini Alfredo.
My mouth waters simply from the smells. This is the only thing, apart from beautiful women, that makes my eyes dilate. Then, I remember that this might possibly the last meal she’ll cook for me, and she says, “So, tell me about her.” And, in the moment after she says this, I realize three things: first, I’ve underestimated her because, and that leads me right into number two, she’s fine with it, and, number three, I’ve been a bad friend. I manage to overcome the almost overwhelming urge to apologize.
I decide that I can make it up by telling her everything. As I recount the first few encounters, I try not to speak with my mouth full. I tell her of what happened three weeks ago; the first time that I played chess with someone, other than Connie, and myself, in over a year.
The first time machine #104 woman, Bianca is her name, walked up to my counter, as her laundry load was going through the advanced rinse cycle, and asked me in that voice she has whether I wanted to play a game tomorrow, in the park. And I, lacking any reason of why I shouldn’t, acquiesced immediately.
Connie’s jaw goes a little slack at that; she knows how fiercely I protect my antique chessboard. Only two other people have played with me on it - my mother, and Connie. Then, the devious grin is back. “So, did she beat you?”
She’s got the cat that ate the canary looks, and it’s not going to help that I’m embarrassed to tell her the truth. “Um, no. We didn’t, uh, finish the game.” My voice got progressively softer throughout the sentence, till it tapered off into silence.
I don’t know why I bothered with tact; Connie is all hearing and all knowing. Now, her mouth actually hangs open; in the two years she’s known me, she’s never known me to lose, never mind not finish, a chess game. “What??” she asks, her voice belying that she doesn’t quite believe what she just heard.
Maybe I said something along the lines of stalemate…because, surely, I couldn’t have said that I did not finish. “You resigned?” she asks, still shocked.
“No, we just didn’t finish.”
And, then it hits her, and it’s the first time I’ve ever seen Connie blush. Oh great, now she thinks I’m some sort of nymphomaniac that I can’t keep my hands off my date long enough to finish a chess game. “We were too interested in our conversation, and we just sort of forgot about the board sitting between us.”
Connie has a secret weapon in her left eyebrow, and she uses it now as it rises in an ‘I’m on to you, so don’t bother shitting me’ look.
I defend my honor, “I’m serious. We spent, like, four hours just talking.” I’ve got my earnest face and my earnest voice on, the one that reminds her I’m one of the world’s last true believers, and now she’s really interested.
She leans forward, arms crossed over the counter, and the conspirational tone is thick in her voice, “So, what did you girls talk about?”
I sigh, and put my fork back in the Alfredo; I’m not going to get eat till she has all the details. “Everything. Anything, really; where she’s from, where I’m from, favorite movies, books-“
“Did you tell her about your family.”
“Um, no. Not yet.”
“Hmmm…has she told you about hers?”
“Yeah, they live in the city…I think she said on Geary.”
There’s that grin again, “What does she look like? Is she a babe?”
“Connie!”
“Oh, please. Don’t go prudish on me, baby. Just because I haven’t seen you in diapers, doesn’t mean I don’t know you.”
That has to be the weirdest explanation for why someone knows me through and through, and I tell her so.
“Yea, well, there you go. It maybe weird, but it’s right.”
I can’t fault her logic really, mostly because all my thoughts have gone on the fritz as the door opens, and I notice her walk in. She’s all apologetic smiles because she’s over an hour late. Luckily for her, I know it’s because she had a family dinner to attend before this. She walks up to the counter in that way she has, and gives Connie a small smile, before leaning over and says, in that whispery tone she has, “Sorry, I’m late. Dinner ran over, and the uncles and aunts wanted lurid details on life.”
I’m feeling more confident around her in public now, so I’m back to my usual rapid-fire responses, “No problem. Was dinner good?”
There’s a smile on her face that says yes, she loves her family but no, she doesn’t really want to talk about them anymore because she’d rather just be with me right now. So, I’m looking towards Connie to preempt our exit, and I notice she’s looking my date over with her critical eyes.
I internally sigh, and realize that I cannot delay the inevitable anymore. I turn to my date, and gesture towards Connie, “This is Connie. She’s my pro bono shrink and honorary mother, all in one. Connie, this is Bianca."
She turns towards Connie, and flashes one of her iridescent smiles, “It’s nice to finally meet you, Connie. I’ve heard a lot of great things about you.”
Connie shoots me a questioning look beneath her lashes, before she takes the proffered hand. "Bianca. It’s nice to meet you as well. How old are you?”
I mentally slap myself on the upside because I should’ve known that Connie would act like a father whose daughter is going to Prom with a date who could possibly end up deflowering his daughter. And so, like that father on that night with that date, Connie’s checking out credentials.
But, not unsurprisingly, she understands exactly where Connie’s coming from, and replies seriously, “Twenty-three years, and eleven months, ma’am.” even as she winks at me from the corner of her eye, and I’m blushing.
Okay, it’s time to break up this tête-à-tête. Being the smooth operator that I am I toss out, “Alright. We ready to roll?”
And, Connie, concerned father of the night, asks, “Where are you going?”
At least she didn’t say ‘Where are you taking her?’ That’d been unforgivably cliché, and Connie is no cliché.
I reply quickly, “We’re going out for a movie and dinner.”
Connie volleys back, “But you’ve already had…” dinner, she was about to say. But, then she realizes that, at least for tonight, I’m not going to subsist on her wonderful cooking. I don’t want her to be hurt by any of this, so I go up to her and give her a big hug, and kiss her on both cheeks. I pull away and smile, “Thank you for the Alfredo. I’ll keep it in the fridge, and finish it tomorrow. I promise. Say bye to Larry from me. I love you.” It’s a rare occurrence that I say such endearments, but I want her to know that she’ll always be important to me. She smiles, and I’ve got the bounce back in my toes. I look past Connie to catch my date’s eyes, and silently tell her that it’s time to go.
Bianca gets the hint, “Well, Connie, it was wonderful to meet you. I hope I get to see more of you soon.” And, with that, a smile and wary wave from Connie, we’ve stepped out of the warmth of Skye’s and into the biting wind of San Francisco.
“Where to?” I ask with a smile that can’t help but be exuberant.
She’s looking at me with quiet warmth and says, “Well, I whipped up something that’s sitting in the oven at my place…if you’re up for it.” She’s a tad hesitant, and it’s endearing.
I smile more and I’m reminded of a teenager on Prom night, and I reply, “Sounds good.”
We’re at her place, and it’s my first time here, so I soak up the effect it has on me. It’s got those solid, wooden floors that speak of age, warm woodsy colors, knick-knacks from her travels around the world and a collection of books and movies to envy my own. I’m comforted by the aura this place projects, and I’m not feeling threatened to be in her territory.
This is a very good sign, in my book. Or maybe I’m just finding more and more reasons that push me towards falling for her. I sit on the high stool at her kitchen counter as I watch her, unabashedly, as she moves around with practiced ease, setting up our dinner. I’d offered help, but she’s relegated me to conversation and telling her if I like the wine. I do; she’s chosen a Riesling. I had mentioned in passing, during that abandoned chess game, that it was my favorite wine. And she remembered.
“What did you pick for the movie?”
She turns away from her preparations for just a moment to toss a saucy smile, “Casablanca.”
My breath catches in my throat; I had also told her that I thought it was the most romantic movie in my book. And she remembered. “Good choice.” Cheesy as my predilection is, it really is a fantastic movie. She rewards me with another one of her luminescent smiles. And I am undone all over again.
We’ve settled with our plates of the best Asian food I’ve tasted, and I know my taste buds are delirious with joy. We’re sitting close on her couch, and I’m acutely aware of her thigh pressing against mine as Ilsa, played by an incomparably gorgeous, young Ingrid Bergman, tells Sam to play it again. I lose myself in the Michael Curtiz’s masterpiece.
Soon, it’s Rick telling Ilsa that they’ll always have Paris, and I don’t notice that I’m crying till she reaches for the Kleenex box and takes two tissues; one for herself, and one for me. I give her a teary thank you smile, and she returns it. Better yet, she understands it. Soon, it’s “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” And the end credits are rolling and our plates are scraped clean. It’s been a beautiful night, and while I don’t know what’s happening next, I know that this connection, where before it was tenuous, has just deepened.
We’re clearing dishes, and she’s loading the dishwasher, and I can’t resist asking, “Would you have been able to do that? Let go of someone who you loved, for the sake of the greater good?”
She closes the machine, and sets the rinse cycle, as she ponders the question, “I would hope so. The world needs less selfish people. If we didn’t have that part in us, we’d all be going to hell in a hand basket.” To say that my interest is piqued is an understatement; I haven’t had this conversation often with dates, because, at those times, neither of us were big on conversation.
But this is different. Isn’t it?
I realize, in this moment, with the quiet whish of the dishwasher, her leaning against the sink with a glass of wine in her hands, and giving me that piercing look she has, I know that I want this to be more.
So, I yank up my courage and continue my tumble down the rabbit hole, “The dying breed of idealists.” I whisper, and I look up to see confusion in her eyes.
“What?”
So, I open mouth and I’m about to tell her some of my most personal beliefs. These aren’t just passing ‘pearls of wisdom’ that I’ve collected along the way; they are the foundation upon which I live. “The dying breed...” this time my voice is stronger, "People who believe that human beings, while flawed and cursed, are essentially self-redeeming. That the world, this planet, our life is going to turn out okay, because underneath all the hate and grime and unspeakable crimes we commit on each other and other living beings, we will survive, and flourish. Not just as a race, but as a world. There will come a time when there is peace, and there is equity amongst people. Real equity. Society will evolve to such extents that we will be able to overcome the less savory aspects of our character. We won’t actually f*ck up and bring Armageddon upon ourselves; there is hope. There is always hope.” I’m tempted to look away, having never really told anyone any of this in quite so many words.
But, I look at her, I don’t look away.
She looks right back at me, holding my gaze and, with utmost seriousness, says “Our salvation lies within ourselves.”
For the second time tonight, she has ripped the breath from my body. Surely, this cannot be real. Surely, she didn’t mean what she just said; she was being conversational, indulging a young, naive fool. I try to smile, but I think my lips tremble, and I don’t manage to pull it off.
She pushes off the sink counter, and walks slowly up to me in that way she has. I’m unsure of what to do, and I tell myself that I really don’t know why she’s approaching me with that look. She’s a foot away, and she’s silently asking for permission.
I try not to think of Alice and the rabbit hole.
I look at her, and she must have seen something, because she leans forward, and gently cups the back of my neck with her hand, leaning closer and closer…till I can feel her breath upon my mouth. Her hand caresses the hairs at the nape of my neck, and moves around my neck to the front and up towards my chin in a smooth move that leaves me breathless. “The dying breed of idealists,” she whispers to me, and my eyes close in gratitude and love, as I wrap my arms around her, and give into the dream.
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It’s been three weeks since then, and though neither she nor I have used the L word to each other, I predict it won’t be too long before we fully surrender to the inevitability of what we have.
We’ve even survived the experience of having dinner with Connie, who, upon seeing the glow in my eyes and seeing a corresponding one in my dinner companion’s, retired the concerned pre-Prom father routine. Bianca and I decided that Connie needed a girls’ night out, so we left Larry to his pizza (home-made), beer (Miller) and his football game (69ers versus Raiders). Bianca and I toned down our jokes and gestures of affection around Connie, not wanting to alienate her. But, you’d have to be blind to see the chemistry between us, and Connie is anything but oblivious.
At the nights’ end, we dropped off a tipsy and very giggly Connie, with Larry looking at us from the front porch with a look of unabashed horror at his inebriated wife. Till she stumbled into his arms and planted a big, wet kiss on his mouth. I waved at him from the passenger seat of the car, and gave him a big thumbs’ up sign and a wink, before the girl in the driver’s seat pulled back onto the road, her tires squealing and burning with the force she put on the accelerator.
If there’s one thing that scares me about this woman it’s the speed at which she drives. It’s amazing that she’s only gotten five speeding tickets in the last month. I look over at her, and shameless ogle her as she concentrates on making the trip from Larry’s to her place in five minutes flat. I’m surprised at how I’m not protesting against traveling at warp speed; it’s a trip of ten miles. Ten minutes later, the car is safely parked in her garage, where the smell of her burned tires has permeated, and we’re running up her stairs, not bothering with the elevator, giggling and playing like little kids. Till she gets her key through the door, and we’re inside her sanctuary. Where before we were all light-hearted and juvenile, this moment is anything but flippant as I reach out to her, extending my right hand. She smiles, breathless and glorious, leaning against the door for one last second before pushing away, clasping my hand and kissing me.
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A week later, I’m at work, and Connie and I are having a heated match of chess. See, even though we’ve played more games of chess than we can count, Connie has yet to beat me. I’ve always checkmated her, or she has resigned. Not even one stalemate.
But, today, with this game, is as close as she’s ever come to beating me; she’s got my Bishop, Knight and Castle. I’ve got her Queen and both her Bishops. I should’ve checkmated her by now, but I’m not concentrating.
It’s 6:15pm, and it’ll only be a few more minutes before Bianca gets here. It’s our one-month anniversary, and we’re going to watch Roman Holiday (who knew that we were both Audrey Hepburn maniacs?), accompanied by a great Chablis, Lasagna and Tiramisu. We’re both still in that giddy, new love phase, and we’re in no rush to overcome it.
Connie makes that annoying tsk-tsk noise at the back of her throat as she takes my other unprotected Knight. She’s giving me that smile that tells me I’m a lost cause today because my heart and hormones are on the rampage, and she knows this, and she’s going to savor every moment of my unceremonious defeat.
I fight back with, “Don’t even think of winning this game, darling. I’m going to wipe you out.”
Her grin just gets wider, “Oh yea. Since you’ve been doing such a good job till now.”
That’s it; there’s no reason I have to take this sort of ego bashing from a loved one. In an orchestrated move, I remove her Castle. The same Castle that she thought she was going to use to checkmate me in three moves.
It’s my turn to grin, and hers to bitch, “Bitch.”
I laugh, throwing my head back, and I can hear her almost grinding her teeth. As I recover from my giggling, the sounds of distant sirens pierce my consciousness.
Everyone in here seems to hear it at the same moment, for there is a synchronized whipping up of heads. Those amongst us now, who react quickly to everything in life, already have some degree of sadness etched on their faces. For they are already contemplating the negative implications of those screaming wails. Death, of some shape, form or kind. I grimace inwardly at their pessimism, their lack of not wanting to believe the best. No one would be harmed, no one was dead, and no one hurt. No one. Zero casualties. Start believing it, you goddamn fools.
Everyone drains out of the place, wanting to stare at the possible wreckage, the possible loss of life, arms and limbs torn asunder maybe.
I look at Connie, who shrugs and gestures with a lurch of her shoulder that maybe we should go check it out. I rise, as does she, and in my hurry I hit my King piece, knocking it over.
There are quite a few people standing on the streets, watching the drama unfold. I roll my eyes as I see each of their internal conflicts between wanting to see the damage and gore for themselves, and staying away and, thereby, preventing nightmares. For some of them, the former wins out, and those venture forward towards the swiveling lights of blue and red, and those huge red trucks. But it’s not a Fire truck, because it’s not red.
I step towards the whirling lights, not consciously hearing Connie’s shout of warning. Through the haze of confusion, I walk towards the wreckage. The very walls are quaking with each further step. The pavement seems to sneer at my brain, the buildings beckon me closer to the scene, the trees seem to part to allow me entrance, the cars stop traveling and all life seems to be frozen in time, as if their welcoming embrace is worth all of their time, interest and effort presently.
The whole world slows down, as I walk faster, further, my legs eating up the distance to that fateful white van. I am oblivious to the shouting and horrified people around me.
I am merely a few feet away now. In a continuation of the abnormality of my even being here, my arms try to clear a path amidst the crowd of people who have lost their souls already to the permeating jadedness of the world. My elbows dig in and flay out, as my breath hitches, and I begin to catch faint glimmers and fleeting views of the drama before my eyes. My mind is a whirlwind of loud, screaming noises and hateful voices from my past.
My spine rolls front, and my back prepares to stretch as my inner mechanism pushes me to my toes, and then, finally, I get a clear vision of the stage.
All the world’s a stage, I’ve heard. But the only thing I can think is that I know those legs. Those legs that are lying horizontally on the road. I don’t see any cuts on the legs themselves. So the blood smeared must have come from somewhere else.
My eyes, whole heartedly ignoring the outraged warnings of my brain, slowly travel upwards, till they reach the face. That face. The face. Perfection. With its matted and soiled hair clinging to the forehead by the force of drying blood. Those huge eyes, which I have stared into countless times during the past month, bulging as if they are disbelieving of the fact that they will never see the green of the trees again. Those arms, the gentlest of hands. One stretched out on the rough surface of the road. The other tucked in to the crook of the body. Those cheeks marred by oozing body fluids. The road must be highly uncomfortable. With its sandpapery surface and hardness like nothing else. No, not the most comfortable place at all.
I want to bend down to her, and whisper to her that if she wanted to die, she should have chosen a more comfortable place. I glance at the car, as if stopped in mid motion, with its dented hood and bloody license plate. I have seen enough. These are the visions it will recall and replay again and again and again and again and again, when I turn off the lights, and am surrounded by darkness. I turn around and walk away. The dying breed is extinct.
- END -