Perhaps and the Beautiful Stranger

by Annee Nymas

  Perhaps and the Beautiful Stranger

  Annee Nymas

  Published: 2011

  Tag(s): reflection romance unrequited journey hill "bridget jones' diary"

  Perhaps and the beautiful Stranger…

  By Annee Nymas

  Copyright © Annee Nymas 2011

  The right of Annee Nymas to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  The characters in this publication are based on a fictitious reality and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Published by M Publications.

  Perhaps and the Beautiful Stranger

  (a short story)

  by

  Annee Nymas

  He strides down the Hill like Aragorn from the Lord of the Rings movies (rather sexily played by Viggo Mortenson), his soft, ashen-brown locks floating about his neck and shoulders with each declining step. His face is handsomely etched with the markings of time and a life lived, decorated with wise eyes, and yet there is youth about him, so that he appears timeless, impossible to age. Dressed in pale colours, with the sunlight rising behind him through the tall and sturdy trees, he is a beauty of a man as might inspire a new vision of ‘David’, were Michelangelo passing the Hill that day.

  And yet, in five years, he has never smiled. Not in rain, with that mutual solidarity between fellow walkers, harassed by the elements and the insensitivity of passing vehicle owners swishing through water-filled potholes, like the jabbing of concrete wounds, covering sopping pedestrians with yet more anger and frustration; not in snow as the Hill becomes a treacherous ice rink, impenetrable by only the most foolish and hardy; and never once in the glory of sunlight, or with passive tolerance beneath the dull and common-grey English skies. Five years of avoiding all eyes or looking toward mine without any expression. Five years of admiring a man with no voice, no name and no smile.

  Perhaps he has bad teeth? Or a facial paralysis?

  The Universe has a strange but unarguable sense of timing. If you ask why it has taken me five years to realise he has never once changed his expression as he passed, I could only answer: I don't know, it just has. I always did notice him, but for most of those five years, even if I did try to catch his eye with a smile of my own, he was never at the forefront of my mind for any more time than it took him to enter and leave my vision. Truly out of sight, out of mind. Other things, other beings occupied me then. Yet now, it seems, the Universe is ready to let me dwell on him. But it isn't ready to have me understand why…

  I might have found this infuriating five years ago, so perhaps that's why; the older I grow, the more accepting I become of the gradual flow of life. You can't fight or change it before it's ready to be changed. I still burn with Impatience, but age has weakened her control, and I can create far more distractions than I had in my youth, as if dangling a few choice toys before the screaming child. She's placated, although never fully quietened. But she must be made to wait; when the time is right, the Universe will deliver the explanation, the understanding. Rush the delivery and ruin the surprise. I know this, even though I hate it.

  Perhaps one day the Universe will begin to cater for the fast-living, 21st Century needs and deliver within 40 minutes or you won't have to pay… ?

  The series of events that led to my change in attitude towards the Stranger are easy enough to relate. In order for our morning pass to take place I am required to catch an early train. This train is the only one which will give me enough time to ascend the Hill and arrive at my place of work in good time. When I began my new career in education, I was a punctual worker, I ignored the painful feeling of tiredness that accompanied the first few bleats of the alarm clock, and I caught the early train every day. And every day the Stranger and I, surrounded by unruly and badly dressed students, would silently pass each other by. Then, educated by those same unruly teens, I discovered the later train, the train that would invariably get you up the Hill five minutes past the start of the academic day, but would allow for an extra half hour in bed. The dark misery of winter convinced me, this train was the way to go whenever possible. And so, though I never once thought about it in these terms, I missed passing the Stranger for almost one whole academic year.

  With the summer exams, I grew lighter with the mornings, more able to wake of my own accord than under the barbaric rule of defined, alarmed time. I returned to the early train and the remembrance of that silent passer. The Hill is exceptionally steep, especially for a morning walk at pace. It isn't the steepest of the area, which, being one side of a valley, is nothing but hills, still mostly green and rolling in this time of excessive brick and mortar. This Hill is a pain, physical and mental, and one both students and adults abhor. Thankfully, in general, I pass the Stranger at the lower part of the inclination, so the sweat and tears have not yet congealed my hastily applied make up and my breathing is still relatively even.

  One particularly sunny day in late May, I arrived at the base of the Hill from the early train, when I saw the Stranger walking down toward me. He'd had a slight haircut and was wearing a white buttoned shirt. I couldn't remember having seen him in a shirt before, certainly not one like this anyhow. It was a short sleeved office shirt and it floated about his torso, catching every breeze. He looked suddenly different and quite beautiful. I remember thinking it must be for a woman; men will cut and clean anything for a good woman and a promise. I wanted to admire him openly, but as he drifted by I found myself dumbstruck, not just by his looks but with an unexpected hesitancy. This was bewildering; I'd had no qualms about telling the woman on the train, who consistently dressed like a middle-aged 80s throwback, with her leg warmers, ski pants and loose fitting, off the shoulder jumper perfectly synchronised by her single pig tail, how lovely she was looking the one day she travelled in a delicate summer dress with her auburn hair neatly pinned at the crown (disappointingly, she returned to the 80s the very next day). I didn't consider myself shy at speaking out if the moment felt right - after all, I was a teacher faced with such occurrences every day! ("It's not particularly surprising you tripped on the step, Charlie, seeing as your trousers appear to be slipping to your ankles! And didn't you have any better underwear this week… ?")

  The Stranger hadn't noticed me or my inability to speak, of course. It is slightly arrogant of me to ever assume it's me he ignores or me he stares at, since he has probably never seen me in all those five years! It is odd how you can stare at an image in your mind with more conviction than the curious vision of reality right there in front of you. I often place myself as far removed from the real world as I can while I walk up the Hill, in order to distract my ageing body from the hard toil, so I cannot be surprised by his total lack of interest.

  The very next day I arrived early again, this time because I was due to be interviewed for a new role. I felt smart and slightly sassy, even in a pink shirt (pink is apparently intimidating to men, I once read) and black trousers. I had a change of shoes in my long-life shopping bag, since no one with any sense, or above the age of 20, would attempt the Hill in decent, heeled shoes. On this day, I again saw him approach from a distance, but I was audibly taken aback! "Wow!" He wore a suit. Never, ever, had he worn a suit before, and, as every woman knows, the first time you see a man in a good
fitting suit is always a delight. This time I simply couldn't, wouldn't allow myself to stay silent (more's the pity). I didn't have much time to prepare, since he was moving with particular haste that day. So as he neared, I opened my mouth and exclaimed, "You look amazing today!"

  I have never seen a man look more confused and scared by the noise emanating from my mouth. And that's saying something (though I'll spare any details). He responded with a highly uncertain thank you, to which I laughed. Yes, laughed. Not a soft, feminine giggle of approval, and sadly not a far more appropriate smile and nod. I laughed with such a sound as a dog might comprehend. It was a fully barked "Ha!" Needless to say, I was an instant embarrassment to myself, and more than glad he was rushing away. What was that noise and why?! I began to suspect he might think I had been horribly insincere in my compliment. Many other things also occurred to me: he might think I was a student (I'm still occasionally mistaken for one due to my luckily young facial features, and despite my insistence on wearing real clothing, not just a pair of laddered tights and a top that barely covers my visible panty line), in which case his belief of my insolence might be even stronger; or he might have been enjoying a thought, only to have it rudely interrupted…

  On the other hand, I did hear him speak, and he had a very pleasant male tone. So all is never completely lost. The suit had me thinking about him more than usual too. Wouldn't it be odd if we both had an interview on the same day? But then he might change his job, his routine, and completely disappear. What other reasons do men have for wearing suits? He's not dead, so that's discounted. He could be getting married, but it would be an unusual choice of day and time (Thursday, first thing?). The simpler explanation (apparently being the most likely) is that some work event requires it. As usual, he gives me nothing but speculation and wonder.

  I was offered and accepted my new role at work, and as soon as I left the Principal's offer, a little uncertain of my future, I couldn't help but wonder if he'd got the job too. I was still going by my first impressions…

  I noted the suit with friends and colleagues and how it had finally given me the courage to speak to him, and I admitted that he'd been disturbed at this (I didn't admit to the laugh). I said it must be my 'god-voice', that great bellowing tone which might send any man quivering and running for the hills (of which we have many, though I've always wondered why you'd run to the hills - wouldn't that slow your escape?). I don't really have a 'god voice', you may be unsurprised to learn. I have a teaching voice and a drunk and disorderly voice, both of which have slightly higher decibels than might be expected from someone as diminutive as me. I don't recall using either of those, but I did have to catch his attention and I did neglect to remove both headphones from my ears (I always listen to some positive affirmations and new age music up the Hill, in the hope I might drift off and believe I really am that popular… ). Perhaps I was loud… ?

  Nothing, bar the odd bit of useless advice from colleagues about waiting for him to speak to me, or keeping up the conversation, was forthcoming from that very brief interchange, and he did not speak to me again of his own accord.

  If he did indeed get a new job, it was yet to change his routine, as for the majority of those few days I bothered to rise early enough, he would still pass, tightly wrapped in a dark blue cagoule during a particularly heavy rainfall, or warmly dressed in dark lumberjack shirts to keep out the cool lack of a June summer (I have surmised he might be an outdoors person from his taste in clothes, but it's still something of a mystery what he is and does… ). Only one time I didn't see him, but I was walking and talking with a colleague - he may have passed entirely unnoticed, but I only recalled not seeing him as I arrived at work and felt a little dejected by it.

  Time passed. I attended a tea party with colleagues from the main department I work with. It was a pleasant, cool evening, and we sat under a gazebo eating pricey sandwiches, cream teas and cakes, quaffing champagne (one only ever 'quaffs' champagne, apparently, and we did plenty of it), and reminiscing on the exceptional storm we had witnessed all that afternoon, which had only just departed in time for tea. At the train station that evening, as I sat on the filthy but comfortable seats and waited for the late-running 7:25pm, a fellow colleague inhaling his tobacco fix just outside the door, I could not believe my eyes as the train for the opposite direction drew up in front of me on Platform 2. The train doors lined up perfectly between the lobby doors, and there, exactly behind those train doors and waiting to depress the button to free himself and his fellow passengers, was the Stranger. All clad in his pale beige shorts and white shirt, the hero released the doors and strode forth, and as he passed me, a slightly drunken and shocked evening-mess of a woman, he looked straight into my eyes. No expression, no smile of recognition or hint of surprise at seeing me at such an unusual time of day. Not even a flicker of fear that I might be the Glenn Close to his Michael Douglas and he should make sure the kids lock up the bunny hutch tonight. I did try to smile, but it's hard to know what your face (or indeed your whole body) is doing whilst it tries to make sense of the self-induced, diminishing effects on all its neurotransmitters following a good drink. Moments after he left the lobby, I leapt to my feet and gushed to my colleague, that's the man I like! Despite being gay, my colleague was gratifyingly complimentary of the Stranger’s back, and I immediately tried to break free from the sudden schoolgirl that appeared to be taking over my body like a very poor quality horror movie.

  I mentioned the Universe has its own plans, which it neglects to reveal in full. It does, however, like to give us these odd little moments we call 'coincidence' and then 'more than a coincidence' and finally 'no way can that be a coincidence'. I am, personally, a happy believer in the concept of fate. Why not? Things always happen for a reason, and it is second guessing that reason which usually leaves us disappointed; the Universe's reasoning is beyond ours altogether. It sees big, we see small. Nevertheless, small is all we have to play with; we'd have no dramas or conflicts without it. The Stranger stepping off the train, at the very moment I had settled to await mine, could not be a mere coincidence to my mind. This was a sign. It was time to stop wondering and start getting answers, even if those answers were not what I wanted. All events lead somewhere and his crushing of my spirit might lead to something unexpectedly great (I could only hope… )!

  What I now knew about him was that he worked on the opposite side of the line to me (what my smoking colleague called "the better direction", since it moves towards London), but I still had no idea exactly how far along the line. His morning routine and timing might suggest not very far, unless he started after 9am, but to only arrive home at 7:20? Suppositions: late starter, yes, perhaps, or he might engage in other social activities immediately after work… on a Tuesday evening… ? Or this might have been a one-off late… ? Wherever he worked, it was somewhere he felt comfortable wearing shots (albeit smart, tailored looking shorts) and, in the past, t-shirts. I had always imagined it might be a manual or outdoor job, but one colleague the very next day did suggest IT… I hadn't thought of that. I still can't quite picture it, but it's in the maybe list. I also know he lives up the Hill, which is not an altogether cheap area to live. This might suggest he earns good money, but it could just as easily hint at shared home ownership (possibly marriage or a relationship of some kind?), or some past windfall that he now uses to boost his income? His voice, I gathered from all of two words, suggests him as local. The shoulder length hair has often had me romanticizing about his being a musician or an artist of some kind, or perhaps he likes to re-enact Middle Earth battles at weekends… ?

  I needed answers. Or I needed some reason to be far less interested in the reality of the man, some horrible slight or disappointing truth from him. I would need more words… And a smile.

  Smiles can tell you all you think you need to know about a man. A sincere, happy, sexy smile, using eyes, cheek muscles and lips, with a little teeth, speaks volumes. Usually those volumes get burnt when they turn out to be re
latively empty in the long read, but for that first moment, everything can be revealed. Crookedness, uncertainty, distaste, fear… They're all in a smile and they're difficult to hide from searching eyes.

  Two days after the tea party surprise, I had another early morning. By now, I had lamented my foolish inaction of Tuesday night to friends. "How many times do I have to walk by this man before he notices me?". They retuned their usual levels of banter (is he actually a sentry of the Grenadier Guards?) and vaguely interested advice (say something? poke him with a stick?). It was indeed time for some sort of action, and so I began to over rehearse a script in my head:

  "Hello. I know you have a train to catch, so I won't keep you. I just wondered, only I've been walking past you for five years now and, of course I have no idea if you're single or mostly straight, but that's beside the point. It's just that you've never once smiled and I was wondering if there was anything I could do to change that… ?"

  Two problems arise from scripting a casual meeting: one, the longer you rehearse it, the less casual it feels and the more flaws and alterations crop up, and two, you still have to have the guts to say it out loud.

  He was coming, at a casual pace himself for that matter, suggesting that if I stopped him he would have time to listen. He was wearing one of his darker lumberjack shirts and for some reason I couldn't get it out of my head that the darker shirts didn't flatter him quite as well as the lighter ones. That combined with his complete lack of eye contact may have accounted for the fact that, as he walked towards me, I opened my mouth to gain his attention… And absolutely nothing came out. All I could do was despondently shut it again and watch him walk by, totally ignorant of my presence and my despair.