Aggravated Acts and Trials of a City Girl-Anger
I wanted to take a look at City Girl from a 3rd person, so this one is a little different, less like a diary entry and more of a short story.
I promise that my next spare moment for writing will be devoted to Never a Bride. I have written a few pages lately, but motivation to write has been almost as hard to come by as time lately.
Thanks again to all my friends on LJ who have been so supportive of me while I'm struggling to get my life together. You don't know the difference simple words can make. Then again…maybe you do.
Blue
She looks angry, on the verge of tears, sitting there clutching an empty coffee cup. Who knows how long ago she finished it. It doesn't matter, though. The workers would never throw her out. Not that bright, friendly red-head who always takes a moment to ask how you're doing when she orders her extra dry cappuccino. They like her too much. So even though it's rush hour in the coffee house and the tables are full, and she's been occupying that seat for hours, just sitting there, they leave her be. They don't know her name. Never asked. She's a drink order to them, but one they know by heart. It's the same thing every time. Tall. Extra Dry. Cappuccino. How are you?
Her phone buzzes and she picks it up, mild surprise registering on her face first, then anger and frustration. What was in the message? She practically throws her phone on the table, as if it has offended her. She rolls her eyes and looks ready to shout at someone, but there's no one to shout at, so she just pinches her brow, closing her eyes in exasperation and biting back the tears of rage. When she looks up, there's still anger in her eyes, but she channels it into whatever she's working on on her laptop. She types briefly. Pauses. Searches the air for inspiration. Then types again. And repeat. They don't know what she's writing, but in reality it's a lesson plan for her students. Her students, who will probably not do the assignment she is so painstakingly creating for them, but whom she loves anyway.
Finally, another few hours later, she heaves a sigh so deep it seems to have been building up for years, closes the laptop, and begins wrapping up the cord. When she leaves, the fire has gone out of her eyes and has been replaced by tiredness.
Outside on the street, to him, she's just another pair of feet. Unflinchingly, she walks right past him and the cup of change he's rattling. Her face is hidden behind dark glasses even though it's overcast and dusk is setting, almost as if she doesn't wear them to block the sun but to mask her emotions. Because she is expressionless, mouth set in a thin line, hands firmly shoved in her pockets. He barely notices, he's so used to it, people passing by. He doesn't see the brief flicker of decision in her eyes behind the glasses when she reaches the intersection and turns right instead of going straight across.
But she's back moments later, a happy meal and piece of paper in her hands. He doesn't know how unprecedented this is for her, that she barely makes her own rent and can't afford to try to save every person she passes. But she's got a soft smile of encouragement on her face when she hands everything to him, and her only words are a casual, "Good luck, Man," before she turns and vanishes down the street.
He looks in the happy meal and finds she's thrown in a pen. The paper is a job application. He stares at it for a moment before crumpling it up and tossing it on the ground. What's the point? But at least he'll have warm food tonight. He gets up and starts walking, carrying the bucket of change to the nearest cigarette shop.
And now her hands are back in her pockets as she strolls in the direction of the house, mildly surprised with her own actions. Money is tight lately, and she really doesn't have that $4 to spare. She could have used it for her own groceries. Briefly she thinks of how much her father would disapprove if he knew what she'd just done, although he'd say at least it was better than giving "them" money. And at least she gave him a job application. After all, teach a man to fish and all that….
With a barely perceptible shrug of her shoulder she dismisses the incident, reminding herself that while she can't save everyone, sometimes you just have to do what feels Christian.
Let every man be swift to hear, slow to speak, slow to wrath. James 1:19. Easier said than done.
She hasn't been to church in a while. She works Sunday mornings.
She hesitates briefly at the bottom of the steps when she reaches them, looking up at home. Not home. The place where she lives. There are certain things that make a home, and this place doesn't have them. Maybe the next place.
Either way, she's not sure her anger has totally subsided, and she doesn't want to walk in there if she's just going to light into the next person to upset her. Another tired sigh and she figures she has to go inside eventually, dragging herself slowly up the steps and unlocking first one lock then the other. When she enters, there's company. Her worthless housemate Ethan and his useless, non-rent-paying girlfriend have a friend over, and the smell of pot is thick in the air. That alone is enough to make her raise her hackles in anger, but she forces herself not to say anything and darts silently for the kitchen, where she fixes a large cup of tea, measuring honey and milk into it so carefully it's almost a ritual. She carries the special mug with her and heads back outside, her coat still on. But as she reaches for the doorknob, it falls off the door into her hand. Great. Add that to the long list of things wrong with this wretched house. She'd e-mail the landlord, but there's no point. He never fixes anything. Or if he ever does, it will probably be months after she's gone.
With some effort, she forces the door open and goes to sit at the top of the stoop, ignoring the faint mist of rain beginning to fall. She blows on the tea and watches people passing by. A couple is moving out across the street, forcing a large mattress into the bed of a pickup truck. At another house, a pair of golden retrievers rush onto the tiny, fenced-in lawn when a young man comes home, jumping around him excitedly. A few people passing by her on the sidewalk shoot her questioning looks. This is the city. People don't just sit on their front porches sipping tea. It's weird. But she pays them no heed, just takes another sip, mind slowly drifting somewhere very far away from where she currently sits.
When it returns to, it is not alone, instead accompanied by him. That man from work. The one with the kind brown eyes. She realized this week that she's falling for him, and it scares her. Because falling is bad. Always has been. Nothing good ever comes from investing so much emotion in another person. But she can't help imagining the conversation they might have if he just happened to be passing by at that moment.
He would pause when he spots her, a look of pleased surprise blooming on his warm, friendly face. Hello. What are you doing here?
I live here.
He wouldn't wait to be invited but would climb the steps and sit down across from her, mirroring her and leaning against the opposite rail.
What are you drinking?
Tea. She would offer him some, but he would decline. But only because it's her imagination and she doesn't know how he takes his tea, or if he drinks it at all. She does know he drinks coffee, though.
"How are you? I was worried about you this week," he says casually, as if it's the most normal thing in the world to be concerned for her. It's not. She can't remember the last time she met someone who cared what happened to her once she clocked out.
She smiles ruefully. "I'm all right. It's just been a rough few days, that's all."
He nods sagely. He knows. He was there. "Well don't worry about it, okay? I've got your back." Also said as if it's completely normal and not at all earth-shattering. He does that a lot. Says things that absolutely blow her mind as if they're totally unimportant. "So what are you doing out here?" he asks easily, not judging her at all for the fact that she's practically sitting in the rain.
She sips her tea before answering. "Just…trying to keep my temper." His eyebrows go up. Of course he's surprised by the admission. No one ever expects it from her, that she inherited her father's temper. She'll go along just fine for a while, but when it finally gets to be too much, she can unleash the wrath of hell. Regretting it horribly moments later, of course. She's not sure she'd confess this to him in real life, but here, in her mind, it's safe. He won't judge her here, just ask,
"What's wrong?"
In truth, there's a little part of her that realizes that this is probably how he would react in real life, too. He's just that decent. She shrugs her shoulder and sighs. "Just…can't deal with people sometimes."
"Anything to do with work?" he asks, and she senses the weight behind the question. He would do something about it if that were the case. She treasures that up in her heart secretly.
She's shaking her head, though. "No. Actually, work is one of the few places where everything is okay. It's a safe haven from all the problems here." She looks up at the house, somehow symbolic of all her troubles as it looms over her. "That's probably what made this week so much rougher than usual," she adds, thinking back on the last couple of days.
He understands. "They invaded your sanctuary, didn't they? I'm so sorry, -". She likes the way he says her name, cutting it short like they're old friends. She hides her smile behind the tea cup.
He eyes the mug and changes the subject for her, knowing she doesn't need to talk about the other things at the moment. "How is your brother?" he asks. Because the mug was a Christmas gift from her brother. It says 'Proud Sister of an Airman' on it. She's told this man about her brother. How they've gotten closer lately, how he struggled for a few years but finally found his purpose in the Airforce. And he always asks about her brother, says he feels a connection to anyone in the service. He considered going Coast Guard himself, but in the end, the Fire Fighter Academy was the right path for him.
She almost doesn't want to talk about her brother this time, but she needs to. And this is the only person who would know to ask. Her hands tremble a little with the anxiety she's been laboring under and to her own surprise, her eyes start to burn with tears again. "He's…not great. I told you he was on desk duty because he got injured, right? Well, everyone kept telling me that he was going to be fine, that he would be healed in time for the next ten week training session-" Not basic training. He's already been through that. Now he's going through special forces training to become a para-rescue jumper, possibly the most competitive job in the Airforce. "-But I just found out yesterday they eliminated him because the fracture wouldn't heal in time. And now he can't reapply for over a year. It' just…so screwed up." And she's practically choking with the frustration on her brother's behalf. Because even though they have their differences, he's family. And she'd never seen him so happy as when he started this, and now someone else has come in without warning and taken that away from him. She's scared of seeing him fall back into purposelessness, and she wants to jump in and defend him, but she wouldn't even know where to start.
And the look of disappointment and understanding is evident on his face. He reaches across and places a hand on her foot, the closes part of her, and puts a little pressure there. "Hey, he'll be okay. Don't you worry about it. But tell him I'm really sorry to hear that. I was rooting for him."
And he was, too. Because just like he thinks it's so normal to care about her even though no one cares about her, he thinks it's just as natural that that caring should extend to her brother. She shakes her head. "You're so weird."
He gives her an odd look. "What makes you say that?" Because she said it to him before. Maybe it's got his attention this time.
"You make no sense. Sometimes I don't think you really exist. Like I just made you up because I needed to believe that knights in shining armor are real."
"Knights in shining armor?" he repeats, a little bit amused, but mostly genuinely confused. Because besides being who he is, he's also unassuming. He's totally unaware of how remarkable he is.
She nods. "Yeah. Good, decent men. I was starting to think they were all the stuff of fiction. But here you are. Solid enough." She cocks her head to the side. "I'm still waiting to find out what's wrong with you."
"What's wrong with me?" he echoes. She's so candid and cynical and he's just…not.
She chuckles, a little bitterness behind the sound. "Well there's got to be something. Drugs. Cults. A disturbing predilection for small children. Or maybe you're just going to turn out to be unattainable. Gay or engaged or something. That would make you a lot more believable."
He doesn't laugh because if he has one fault so far, it's that he never laughs, just smiles. And he's smiling at her now, shaking his head, like she's a lost puppy that he wants to pat on the head, but she's been abused by too many men before so he can't. She might bite. "-, would they have accepted me into the Firefighter Academy if I were into drugs or cults or any of that?"
She sighs, a little of her smile returning. "No. So whatever it is, it can't be all that bad." Besides, after everything she's been through, the one thing she can say for herself is that she's pretty good at reading people. And he's just not someone who sends up red flags for her. Quite the opposite. She doesn't point out that they would have no problem accepting him with the other traits. Not being within her personal reach isn't something that shows up on a background check.
He grins at her and her heart warms a little at the thought before his image finally fades from her minds eyes. She looks up at the house again. Time to go inside and deal with her life. There's no tea left, anyway.