Shadows on the Wall
William Philbin
Letting go, she begins to walk away, and I feel that I must follow her.
“Where are you going?” I ask, yet she shows no sign of slowing down.
“The same place as you.” She replies. I can see somewhat of a smile through the blackness of the night.
“That must be ‘Nowhere’ then.” Farther and farther away she goes.
“Exactly.” Stopping, she continues: “Well, Elliott, would you like to go ‘nowhere’ together? Or would you like to just stand there and watch me walk away like all the others?”
I think my heart has stopped. If there were ever words more penetrable, I don’t know.
“What makes you think I let them all walk away?” I ask, terribly interested.
“Call it a gift. I’m very intuitive about things. What else can I think, when I see a man laying in the grass, gazing up at the stars, alone? Secondly, you don’t look like a man who takes action.”
With a sigh as my cue, that if I don’t come out of my coma quickly, she was leaving without me, I hurry to where she is.
“You forgot your sandwich!” she exclaims, laughing a little.
“No, I didn’t,” I reply as I proceed to walk beside her.
This girl Marie carries an imperial air about her and uses her hands quite frequently when she speaks. Her hair moves in a flowing motion with every careful stride. She is dressed formally, for some reason: black dress, earrings, heels, the whole bit—yet she wears no make up—a perfect complexion.
We find a bench and sit down. I sit on top, as I always do when sitting on benches.
“Do you always sit on top of things?” the puzzled look again.
“Bad posture. I can see you better this way.”
“Oh. Why do you have bad posture?”
I’d be out of my mind to tell her exactly why. How mental anguish can distort physical appearances. “Not so intuitive after all, ha”
She doesn’t appear to find that very funny. Not at all.
“Runs in the family,” I reply.
“Anyway…” the word that always precedes an awkward silence.
“So, were you just out wondering around?”
“I was going ‘Nowhere,’ remember?”
I do now, I think.
She continues, “Actually, I was going to meet someone, but I met you instead.”
“A bit rude, no?” I feel compelled to ask.
“Nah, he wouldn’t care.” A note in her voice signals that I shouldn’t question any further.
After an hour or so of “chewing the fat,” touching on whatever events in our lives that took place, events that if they happened any differently, neither of us would be sitting here this night, I wonder about all the “messages” she is receiving from me. There is a strange calm.
“So what are you waiting for?” she asks, and continues, “Are you waiting for a sign? People are always waiting for signs, aren’t they? Like little pinballs, waiting to be smacked in one direction or—”Page Thirty Five.
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