I Looked Great that Evening

Fiction

I watched her for at least an hour. She leaned onto the railing like me, but on the other side of the river, wearing black, looking at her reflection on frozen summer waters. I even dropped a stone yesterday to see if it was really frozen. It shattered softly, then again it became indistinguishable from a stone under my feet. And, as you might have guessed, I stood there daily. Every day between purple and dark blue skies you’d find me there—ugly and short. But I dress well—a monotonous T-shirt, usually black or grey, and white trousers. I wear loose as they do and have kept my hair long. You see, I have nothing worthwhile that, as I learned recently, you don't relate. I heard you don't want to die. How crazy can that be, sir?

I drift off, and perhaps concerningly, take pride in it. Fools don’t stand on any substance to slip and I, an intelligent though ugly man, am full of hubris. You may call me a narcissist. But I’m not, dear reader. I’m characterless like the naked water which flows as I daze off. It hits the shore and I speak to the little gentleman inside my stomach, not you. I starve him some days and serve him the others. I give him food and he gives me gossip about people like the girl on the other side, swallowed by the river.

For the better part of the evening, I wondered if the red reflections on the water were tears, but as the sun softened, the light deepened to blue as I said. The sky was so deep like a tunnel, always leading onto a newer shade of darkness—like her eyes without the mist. They might have been the tears she held or her eyes were just grey.

By then, I could only see a few runners, and the heat and haste had subsided. One or two birds flew past and I heard the air shatter, reminding me of the world behind me, where my home waits. And in the direction I stood, she was thinking of me.

How artistic I must have looked that evening.

I live down the valley, a little up the road to Mistfall. I live in the gentleman’s dreamland. My house sits on a gallery of trees and rivulets. I bring water from them to my tin-on-bamboo house. It was built to be a match factory that was abandoned after the IIM plant. I live there with a few others like me—socially descended men whose identities are tied to anyone who remembers their face. They, like me, come out in the evenings and stand at crowded places so a guy or two hits them like a pole and remembers one of the imaginary men.

Today the girl shall remember me, but I could just hope; there’s nothing to be assured of. And her stare scares me. “You’re handsome, my boy,” the gentleman whispered up my throat. I’m afraid I believe everything he says.

Just to make sure she remembered me, I went for the bridge to her side. Her side was lined with concrete blocks—I was kind of jealous—and she wore sandals. Her feet were spotless; she didn’t need to wash them.

As I reached the turn of the bridge, I heard something hit the water with a deep, heavy sound—like human flesh. I felt my bones dissolving into blood under my skin. I had always been a candle of ashes. I shall burn, but I won’t leave you with nothing to do, dear reader. If you visit my town, come and look at me. I might just be waiting for you.

Buy me a coffee