There Upon The Stone

Task One For Creative Writing, Year 2 Semester 2

“Where for art thou ketchup?” Condensation on the glass. “There it is.”

It slithers out of the bottle in a meandering stream, coating the greasy, plump sausages and melting into a burnt orange as it mixes into the thick slather of buttered bread. There’s more news about the banks on the big T.V on the wall. Not interested. Bite. The wooden stirrer circulates contentedly in the coffee cup which is made of card, or that thick paper, the takeaway kind. There’s some staring, looking like deep thought. Hooded top obscures the eyes, so it’s hard to tell.

At least I caught up, this time she was easy to find. I thought she had a lecture?

A ringlet of hair slithers out and it is brushed back, it doesn’t look like the right colour. Not her? Is it possible to forget what someone looks like?

“S**t.”

Phone out. It rings. Withheld number. Answer machine again.

Lecture in, twelve minutes, or is it? A bit of checking, rummage in the old backpack, bought from somewhere during a day in town. Six months ago, give or take. No closer to seven I think.

The waitress is looking at me. She looks puzzled and there is a quiver of an eyebrow and a tremble of the lip. Does she think I’m looking at her? I smile, involuntary and look over at the girl at the table. The waitress smiles back and picks up her tray. Now she is at the girls table. She points over at me. I see the girl whirl around, a half smile already prepared on her face. All she sees is someone walking quickly away, long brown coat flowing behind.

Is it the lecture hall? Yeah I think so. By the time I get to there the doors are closed. The lecturer is speaking and everyone is scribbling away. I can’t go in now, too risky. There’ll be too many turned heads and she’ll be one of them, inquisitive as she is. Through the pane of Perspex in the door, three people have noticed me, they start whispering.

So I leave, out into the frigid air and light up a cigarette. She’ll be out in an hour, give or take. I sit around the corner from the doors so I’ll be out of sight and out of the way of the exiting masses.

When the time is up, the air fills with a cacophonous clattering of voices and steps. Backpacks rustling, a few clicks of lighters here and about. They flow out and past me. I scan the crowd, my head bobbing and darting around, under people’s legs, through arms, over shoulders, but she’s given me the slip again. It’s getting quiet now, the last few people clear.  I now must catch her on her way home, not catch per say.

As I stride at speed down the long hill into town, I mutter angrily to myself. If I had been quicker, if I had seen her before, just for a moment I wouldn’t be in this position, chasing her in-fact, literally pursuing. What am I?

She would have taken the forest path, followed it through alongside the river, past the abandoned tennis courts which she loves so much. I love them too. Urban decay can be such a beautiful thing. Go past the greenhouses of the university, up the hill again.

 I can see her footsteps in the mulch, trodden there every weekday on her way to and from lectures. I like to think she does it because she wants to get closer to nature, like she misses her country roots. Pity that the traffic still buzzes in the distance, a drill hammering behind the tree line, like a drum beat and there’s that smoke climbing into the air from over the tree line.

The path is slippery and my shoes are muddying, no matter, they’re ruined anyway. But it’s now that I think I catch a glimpse, is she wearing that red jumper? That jumper which camouflages her so cunningly into the leaves? Is that her blond hair, crisp on the outer limbs of the trees? Does that sound echoing resonate from her chest, thumping, pounding. Tick-tock, tick-tock.

The path is littered with fragments of colour, fragments of her smile. A pebble, blown up from the sea? It sits in the middle of one such fragment, strangely green for this time of year, this setting. But it is there. It looks strange, yet natural, it would be mad to presume somebody had placed it there, such insignificance. It’s like a naturally formed Zen garden. She loves those; she has three on her windowsill. Her friends tell her that she is so “cool” and “original”. Though that was in the first year, when compliments mean prizes.

The forest path empties out into the street. I always hated that bit. So does she. How you can step through a gate and into the world again, shutting up nature like a back garden.

In the street the world is ticking over, one car whooshing past at a time, like some component on a conveyer belt. Over the road, along the way, past there. It’s all the same as yesterday, but it’s colder.

Another gate, arched, painted iron. It’s here that she is resting, after the pursuit. I find her there upon the stone. Moss growing into her crevices. How long has she been sat here alone? The wind chill, the pressure on my clothes, my skin, embrace.

It’s here the chase has ended, but I will run it again. It’s here I’ve remembered, nineteen-eighty seven, two-thousand and ten.