He hurried, a cigarette between his lips, hands in pocket, shoulders strained, a big black bag hanging on them. He stopped, momentarily, when he saw her – hairs dishevelled, skin of her Chinese face dry from the cold, skin flaking off her lower lip, an old, white fur coat covering her body, the fur on the cap of which made her look like a distressed, feathery bird. She sat on the park bench, a bottle of beer in her hand and a smile on her face that came when she saw him. She recognized him. He recognized her too – she was the waitress in a cafeteria he frequented.
He had only started to walk when she called, “Excuse me surrr, can I have a cigarette, please?” He hesitated. Those were alien worlds – a different country, culture and language – and he had to a lot on him – cash in his wallet, three credit cards, a Rolex, an Oakley that he loved so much, a laptop, and a mobile phone costly enough to feed a family of eight for a month – all the reasons to be careful from all things pretending to be benign. She fumbled, from her pocket, pulled out a five dollar note and held in his face. “I'll pay,” she added. Her voice fumbled. He looked around. It was only evening. The park around him, in the middle of crossroads bustling with big cars and hasty humans, and there she drank without a care of time. Pigeons scampered around her purposelessly, an albatross guarded its nest by spreading its wings at the first sign of trouble, and behind her, an oversized, black squirrel chased another oversized chestnut squirrel. The sunlight was at those final brilliant moments that only grace the world below in the evenings, the kind that only lasts long enough to be observed before its replaced by twilight.
He had only seen her a week ago, sitting in the same place, with another woman, who like her, would've been in her mid thirties. They sat on the same bench, at around the same time, drank out of one bottle, smoked cigarettes and laughed and shouted. They high-fived each other, embraced, abused, whispered, like they had all the time in the world. That is, before a police-car stopped by and took both of them on grounds of public consumption of alcohol and creating disturbance.
There she was again, alone and completely different from the pretty, smiling girl he remembered her from his visits to the posh cafeteria. But she was no beggar, she offered money for the cigarette she asked for, so he pulled out one and gave to her, and declined the money. She shrugged her shoulders when he said no to the money and took another gulp. Somewhere inside him, a foolish pang of pity rose, the kind that often accompanies men in front of femmes in distress. “You must not drink in open,” he suggested. “Yeah,” she replied. He stood there. The ever-present feeling of a possible danger had lightened. “Your friend is not with you?” he asked, not knowing why he said that.”She dead,” she said casually, not bothering to look at him, her expressions not changing one bit. After a confused moment without words, he said, “I'm sorry.” “Oh don't be. Catherine was fun. She wouldn't be sad that she dead,” she looked at him with a serious face and guffawed. “Gotcha. Gotcha. Naah, kidding. But she was nice. She was...” Her face shrunk, she fought to keep tears inside. She gained control of herself, and quickly said, as if an alibi, “You're an Indian, aren't you. Have a seat. Have... have a seat,” she shifted around on the bench. “Oh no, no. I should be going,” he said defensively and stepped back a few steps. “Oh yeah, get running. Am gonna EAT YOU...,” she growled. He was stunned, a rogue thought told him that it must be her mensuration that swung her moods. He had to leave, he decided. Suddenly, she smiled, pointed her finger at him, and said, “Gotcha.” She guffawed again. “Come on, have a seat. What's the hurry?” He nervously took a seat, carefully maintaining distance from her. His feet wanted to run away, but his heart beat like it would come out. She offered him a gulp out of her bottle, he denied. “Am not gonna ask you money, have it,” she pushed the bottle closer to his mouth. He pulled back, said a nervous 'no', and then added, “I don't drink.” “Dont' drink? What are you, like, forty-five?” “Am only thirty-five,” he was offended. “Thirty-five? Noooo. You're kiddin' me. Only thirty-five and you've those big wrinkles on your forehead. Let me see,” without a warning she moved her palm to his face. He jerked back but her palm found his forehead. Her skin was... soothing, peaceful.. “Let those eyebrows drop. Feel the sun of the winter evening on your face. Listen to the birds around you...” she murmured.
For a few moments, he didn't know how many, he felt he would fall asleep. He felt his eyebrows coming down and the wrinkles on his forehead – that he never knew were there – disappear. Like a burden had been taken off his head. He felt light. He heard the birds, as if for the first time. And every hurry drained out of him. It was peace he had never felt before, away from all the worries. Then he woke up, with a jerk, he removed her hand almost rudely, and stood up. She pulled her hand back, as if her senses had come back, she laid back on the bench, took another drag and said, “Oh yeah, yeah. Busy men. Big men. So much responsibilities. So much money to be earned. Big house, big cars, big money,” she smirked. He felt insulted. He was not going to take lessons of life from a woman who drunk in broad daylight. He shot back, “At least am better than you.”
He stood up, put his bag on his shoulder and started to move. She said, without bothering if he listened or not, “Catherine knew she'd die. Cancer. Girl wanted to die out of the damned hospital.” He stopped. He didn't know why. “We sneaked out. And we drank. Partied. Like there was no tomorrow. Quiet bad the cops got us. But she laughed that out too. Said everything must be experienced, even jail,” she turned to look at him. “That day, I spent all the money I had. All that I had saved. Was gonna move to a better place, but all gone to drink and smoke and dance. Today I have nothin'. Nothin'. So, yeah, you're better than me. You've a lot a things I don't. I lost my money, my savins. I'll still live in a stink-hole of a place for a couple more months. But you know what? I have memories. Your money would dry up. My memories won't. And she died happily,” she took another gulp. The cigarette had reached its end, she threw it in disgust. “Go away,” she added. He came back, opened the pack in front her face. She pulled another cigarette without asking. “Sit down if you're not going,” she said. He obeyed. “Tell me, have you ever lost someone?” she asked. He remembered – yes, he did. Friends, who like him, lost in the race of acquiring that never ended. Family, whose only proof of existence remained a voice that he heard on his mobile phone. And those honest, belly-bursting laughs that used to be so much in abundance when he was a kid, that were taken for granted, now all gone. As if they were never there. “Have you ever lost someone?” she repeated. “No,” he lied. “Noooo. Liar. Everybody loses someone. Why should you be different?” she touched his nerve. It showed on his face for that one extra moment that she caught. “See, see,” she said with joy, almost like a child. “You're a good guy. Here take one. Its one me,” she offered him the bottle again. He took it. “Good boy. I knew you were a good guy. And you're hot too,” she winked and smiled. He hesitated, “Oh, am... am engaged.” “Oh of-course you are? Doesn't stop you from being hot, eh?” she winked again. He blushed. “Gotcha. Gotcha,” she guffawed again. “Thought I was hittin' on ya? Come on, lets drink one for Catherine,” she offered. He took a gulp, she took one. She kept one hand on his shoulders, held the one holding the bottle high, and said, almost shouted, “Je t'aime, Catherine.”
The trees around him stood naked, devoid of all leaves. Soon the Canadian winter would be gone and leaves would spring out. The world would be colourful again. The air would have the fragrance again. The birds would sing. He had decided. He was done chasing money. It was the memories that he had to earn now. He decided, this time, he would hold it, hold everything and everyone that he had ignored for long, as long as he could. “Je t'aime, Catherine,” he whispered.
He had only started to walk when she called, “Excuse me surrr, can I have a cigarette, please?” He hesitated. Those were alien worlds – a different country, culture and language – and he had to a lot on him – cash in his wallet, three credit cards, a Rolex, an Oakley that he loved so much, a laptop, and a mobile phone costly enough to feed a family of eight for a month – all the reasons to be careful from all things pretending to be benign. She fumbled, from her pocket, pulled out a five dollar note and held in his face. “I'll pay,” she added. Her voice fumbled. He looked around. It was only evening. The park around him, in the middle of crossroads bustling with big cars and hasty humans, and there she drank without a care of time. Pigeons scampered around her purposelessly, an albatross guarded its nest by spreading its wings at the first sign of trouble, and behind her, an oversized, black squirrel chased another oversized chestnut squirrel. The sunlight was at those final brilliant moments that only grace the world below in the evenings, the kind that only lasts long enough to be observed before its replaced by twilight.
He had only seen her a week ago, sitting in the same place, with another woman, who like her, would've been in her mid thirties. They sat on the same bench, at around the same time, drank out of one bottle, smoked cigarettes and laughed and shouted. They high-fived each other, embraced, abused, whispered, like they had all the time in the world. That is, before a police-car stopped by and took both of them on grounds of public consumption of alcohol and creating disturbance.
There she was again, alone and completely different from the pretty, smiling girl he remembered her from his visits to the posh cafeteria. But she was no beggar, she offered money for the cigarette she asked for, so he pulled out one and gave to her, and declined the money. She shrugged her shoulders when he said no to the money and took another gulp. Somewhere inside him, a foolish pang of pity rose, the kind that often accompanies men in front of femmes in distress. “You must not drink in open,” he suggested. “Yeah,” she replied. He stood there. The ever-present feeling of a possible danger had lightened. “Your friend is not with you?” he asked, not knowing why he said that.”She dead,” she said casually, not bothering to look at him, her expressions not changing one bit. After a confused moment without words, he said, “I'm sorry.” “Oh don't be. Catherine was fun. She wouldn't be sad that she dead,” she looked at him with a serious face and guffawed. “Gotcha. Gotcha. Naah, kidding. But she was nice. She was...” Her face shrunk, she fought to keep tears inside. She gained control of herself, and quickly said, as if an alibi, “You're an Indian, aren't you. Have a seat. Have... have a seat,” she shifted around on the bench. “Oh no, no. I should be going,” he said defensively and stepped back a few steps. “Oh yeah, get running. Am gonna EAT YOU...,” she growled. He was stunned, a rogue thought told him that it must be her mensuration that swung her moods. He had to leave, he decided. Suddenly, she smiled, pointed her finger at him, and said, “Gotcha.” She guffawed again. “Come on, have a seat. What's the hurry?” He nervously took a seat, carefully maintaining distance from her. His feet wanted to run away, but his heart beat like it would come out. She offered him a gulp out of her bottle, he denied. “Am not gonna ask you money, have it,” she pushed the bottle closer to his mouth. He pulled back, said a nervous 'no', and then added, “I don't drink.” “Dont' drink? What are you, like, forty-five?” “Am only thirty-five,” he was offended. “Thirty-five? Noooo. You're kiddin' me. Only thirty-five and you've those big wrinkles on your forehead. Let me see,” without a warning she moved her palm to his face. He jerked back but her palm found his forehead. Her skin was... soothing, peaceful.. “Let those eyebrows drop. Feel the sun of the winter evening on your face. Listen to the birds around you...” she murmured.
For a few moments, he didn't know how many, he felt he would fall asleep. He felt his eyebrows coming down and the wrinkles on his forehead – that he never knew were there – disappear. Like a burden had been taken off his head. He felt light. He heard the birds, as if for the first time. And every hurry drained out of him. It was peace he had never felt before, away from all the worries. Then he woke up, with a jerk, he removed her hand almost rudely, and stood up. She pulled her hand back, as if her senses had come back, she laid back on the bench, took another drag and said, “Oh yeah, yeah. Busy men. Big men. So much responsibilities. So much money to be earned. Big house, big cars, big money,” she smirked. He felt insulted. He was not going to take lessons of life from a woman who drunk in broad daylight. He shot back, “At least am better than you.”
He stood up, put his bag on his shoulder and started to move. She said, without bothering if he listened or not, “Catherine knew she'd die. Cancer. Girl wanted to die out of the damned hospital.” He stopped. He didn't know why. “We sneaked out. And we drank. Partied. Like there was no tomorrow. Quiet bad the cops got us. But she laughed that out too. Said everything must be experienced, even jail,” she turned to look at him. “That day, I spent all the money I had. All that I had saved. Was gonna move to a better place, but all gone to drink and smoke and dance. Today I have nothin'. Nothin'. So, yeah, you're better than me. You've a lot a things I don't. I lost my money, my savins. I'll still live in a stink-hole of a place for a couple more months. But you know what? I have memories. Your money would dry up. My memories won't. And she died happily,” she took another gulp. The cigarette had reached its end, she threw it in disgust. “Go away,” she added. He came back, opened the pack in front her face. She pulled another cigarette without asking. “Sit down if you're not going,” she said. He obeyed. “Tell me, have you ever lost someone?” she asked. He remembered – yes, he did. Friends, who like him, lost in the race of acquiring that never ended. Family, whose only proof of existence remained a voice that he heard on his mobile phone. And those honest, belly-bursting laughs that used to be so much in abundance when he was a kid, that were taken for granted, now all gone. As if they were never there. “Have you ever lost someone?” she repeated. “No,” he lied. “Noooo. Liar. Everybody loses someone. Why should you be different?” she touched his nerve. It showed on his face for that one extra moment that she caught. “See, see,” she said with joy, almost like a child. “You're a good guy. Here take one. Its one me,” she offered him the bottle again. He took it. “Good boy. I knew you were a good guy. And you're hot too,” she winked and smiled. He hesitated, “Oh, am... am engaged.” “Oh of-course you are? Doesn't stop you from being hot, eh?” she winked again. He blushed. “Gotcha. Gotcha,” she guffawed again. “Thought I was hittin' on ya? Come on, lets drink one for Catherine,” she offered. He took a gulp, she took one. She kept one hand on his shoulders, held the one holding the bottle high, and said, almost shouted, “Je t'aime, Catherine.”
The trees around him stood naked, devoid of all leaves. Soon the Canadian winter would be gone and leaves would spring out. The world would be colourful again. The air would have the fragrance again. The birds would sing. He had decided. He was done chasing money. It was the memories that he had to earn now. He decided, this time, he would hold it, hold everything and everyone that he had ignored for long, as long as he could. “Je t'aime, Catherine,” he whispered.
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