about time
the summer's gone, and all the flowers are dying
for Local Magic (Writing the City)
Every morning, I waited for her to pass by the gate. I’d given them instructions to place me there, never to be disturbed at any point between 0830 and 0850. They have listened very well.
The first time she breezed right past the house with nary a look at the grey facade that fenced me in (long-sleeved blue dress shirt with a striped pattern, black knee-length skirt, black heels), wind at her back at full sail, buffeted by life.
It was only the next time she breezed by that I knew she was the one (black work shirt rolled up to the elbows, jeans so dark they were almost black, fashionable brogues). Many times I have deliberated what I would call out to her as an introduction. Hello is way too prosaic; I have been watching you since forever reeks of perverse stalking. I wouldn’t want to scare her away, not least before she carried out what she was always made to do.
Yesterday I had almost plucked up enough courage to speak to her (black vest over a white blouse, grey skirt of a woolly material, silver ballet flats). The words meandered about my tongue, weaved in and out of the gaps between my yellowed teeth. Hello. Yesterday I saw her face and it bore a naked statement of recognition.
Perhaps I will not even need to say anything. She will turn my way. She will look into the milky expanse of my eyes and profess the truth.
It is not your legs, she will say, it is the chair. The chair-ghost that ties you to itself.
She is another ghost, of sorts.
“Come with me.” Her grip so hard it crushes my hand, eyes glinting like shards of happiness that I eagerly inhale, my chemical romance, my poppy girl, whose potent stare alone is enough to pull me up to my full height. She meets my gaze and I hers; for the first time in years my dumb feet are holding their own on the dusty floor and who’s to say I am to be written any shorter than her?
It’s 0839. I steady myself, pull myself up straighter in the chair so that my shoulders are finally level with the canvas back. Without any hint of haste or impatience, I brush the stray strands of hair from before my eyes. She is coming, and this time, this time, I tell you, I am ready.
for Local Magic (Writing the City)
Every morning, I waited for her to pass by the gate. I’d given them instructions to place me there, never to be disturbed at any point between 0830 and 0850. They have listened very well.
The first time she breezed right past the house with nary a look at the grey facade that fenced me in (long-sleeved blue dress shirt with a striped pattern, black knee-length skirt, black heels), wind at her back at full sail, buffeted by life.
It was only the next time she breezed by that I knew she was the one (black work shirt rolled up to the elbows, jeans so dark they were almost black, fashionable brogues). Many times I have deliberated what I would call out to her as an introduction. Hello is way too prosaic; I have been watching you since forever reeks of perverse stalking. I wouldn’t want to scare her away, not least before she carried out what she was always made to do.
Yesterday I had almost plucked up enough courage to speak to her (black vest over a white blouse, grey skirt of a woolly material, silver ballet flats). The words meandered about my tongue, weaved in and out of the gaps between my yellowed teeth. Hello. Yesterday I saw her face and it bore a naked statement of recognition.
Perhaps I will not even need to say anything. She will turn my way. She will look into the milky expanse of my eyes and profess the truth.
It is not your legs, she will say, it is the chair. The chair-ghost that ties you to itself.
She is another ghost, of sorts.
“Come with me.” Her grip so hard it crushes my hand, eyes glinting like shards of happiness that I eagerly inhale, my chemical romance, my poppy girl, whose potent stare alone is enough to pull me up to my full height. She meets my gaze and I hers; for the first time in years my dumb feet are holding their own on the dusty floor and who’s to say I am to be written any shorter than her?
It’s 0839. I steady myself, pull myself up straighter in the chair so that my shoulders are finally level with the canvas back. Without any hint of haste or impatience, I brush the stray strands of hair from before my eyes. She is coming, and this time, this time, I tell you, I am ready.