She

I was waiting anxiously outside the pharmacy, the chill wind sweeping through my overcoat, indifferent to the fur lined suede. I jiggled around, shaking, sucking on my cigarette, breathing out the damp smoke, flicking the ash over and over like a nervous junkie.
     Where was she, where was she, that slight beauty with the trembling pouting lips, smeared red with cheap lipstick, her eyes bruised by thick blue eye shadow. Not a tart; just no idea, just uncoordinated.
     Drop the cigarette, stamp on it, rub my hands together, plunge them deep into my pockets, overjoyed they no longer have to endure the freezing cold. Well, at least not for awhile. Just my dry face, just my crumbling flaky skin can’t escape this vindictive weather, this cruel, unhappy, unrelenting chill.
     Thank GOD it’s not raining.
     No!
     Thank GOD it’s not snowing!
     Where IS she?!

Today I have it planned and sorted. I’m going to wait till she turns the corner, the corner on which the pharmacy sits — as I notice her wool stockings and yellow ankle boots, I’ll walk toward her, walk straight into her, accidentally, say “Jesus, I’m sorry” and start picking up whatever it is she’s dropped. She’ll smile politely, take her belongings gratefully, start moving off and I’ll say “Wait!” She’ll turn around, wondering what I want, thinking maybe I’m crazy, and I’ll say: “Would you like to join me for a cup of coffee or something. Just so we can escape this bitter wind.” And she’ll smile, thinking about it, in a hurry to get back to work, upset by the break in her maniacally obsessive routine. Then what?

God it’s cold. Another cigarette. Can’t even step inside for a moment. People in the pharmacy’ll think I’m weird. Already hung out in there for fifteen minutes looking at condoms — edible, ribbed, studded, chocolate, neon, black, white, pictures of lovers hand in hand on warm tropical beaches, the sun setting on a distant, impossible horizon. Beautiful men groping beautiful women, pictures of sports cars, women in dangerous black leather. And the face creams, wondering if I shouldn’t buy some moisturizer — browsing in a drug store like I was shopping. Christ!
     She is so late! So unlike her.
     I look at my watch. Only five minutes past her usual time.
     WHAT AM I DOING!! I see her every day on the bus, at the bus stop, on my lunch breaks and then ...
     I see one leg, yellow boots (her Tuesday and Wednesday outfit), start to move, she rounds the corner, we lock eyes as I walk straight into her — the collision happens in exaggerated slow motion, some existential defiance of scientific time: we are tangled, I feel her breath, catch her arm as she loses balance, I’m improvising at every moment and then ...
     She’s standing in front of me and I can’t speak.
     She looks flustered but smiles.
     “Sorry,” she says, her voice soft, gentle, almost demure. Just like I imagined.
     “It’s okay, “ I say, feeling like a moron knowing it’s my fault.
     We stand there for a moment, wordless.
     “Well ...” she says and starts to move on. The script comes back to me, rehearsed to death.
     “Wait,” I say. She stops and turns. “Would ...” I swallow, “ahh ... w ... would you ...you know ... like a ... a ... cup’ve tea or ... something?” There, it’s out.
     She looks bemused. She is thinking.
     “Haven’t we met before?” she asks. We are standing in the icy frost. She is wrapped up to her chin, a checkered blue and white scarf around her neck. She is standing in the full blast of the wind, confronting me. What can I say?
     I’ve been following you for two months from the bus stop to the bushes opposite your house? That I know what you wear every day of the week, that you have a fluffy ginger and white cat called Alfons, that I’ve only ever seen one man enter your house — and leave in the morning?
     But I say: “ Yeah ... well, we haven’t actually met. But I ... uh ... take the same bus as you.” My face is flushed red.
     “Oh,” she says and gives a weak smile. “Look ... I ... I have to go back to work now. I’m in a hurry ...” I KNOW!! “... But maybe I’ll see you on the bus tonight. Thanks for the offer though.”
     She gives another polite smile as she walks off, heading for her office.

By myself again, my heart still racing, adrenaline rushing. I fumble in my pocket for a cigarette.
     Take one out — broken — throw it on the floor, get another, light it. Breathe in deeeep. Whole body slows down. I turn to face the pharmacy window, which is slightly reflective. My face looks like white sandpaper. I brush the blonde straggly locks from my eyes to behind my ears. Look at myself for a couple of moments, taking in the eyes, the cheekbones, my slightly crooked lips. I am pale. The only colour is the pink on the tip of my freezing nose. I unclip my handbag and feel around its messy interior for my tan lipstick. Apply it. Replace the cap and put it away.
     Back to the office. Then ...
     Back to the bus stop. Then ...
     Maybe talk to her, maybe not.

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