by Pat Tyrer:
She cut across the park in the rain, moving as quickly as her heels would allow. The heavy cloud cover left the park dreary; even the grass looked grayish. The trees had given into fall and the smell of wet leaves was fetid. Her watch read 1:50, the second hand moving through the water-filled crystal. She increased her pace as the rain fell harder, pelting the shoulders of the new London Fog. She’d saved for six months to purchase the coat and now the matching woolen scarf was wet and ruined. Against advice, she’d worn it on the outside of the collar instead of muffled around her neck as the clerk had demonstrated. She glanced again at her watch amazed that it was still running, yet regretting the three-quarter length sleeves of the coat. It was 1:52. Back on the sidewalk, she stepped across a puddle nearly losing her footing. Righting herself she continued, quickening her pace, now nearly jogging. She wiped the clouded crystal of her watch against the front of her coat. It was 1:54. She reached the edge of the park. The street was nearly empty, yet she hesitated.
“Are you going?” Allison said, leaning out from behind the bathroom door, her long, blonde hair wrapped turban-like atop her head.
“For the last time, I don’t know,” replied Stacy. “I haven’t decided.”
“Well, you know what I think,” Allison continued.
“Yes, Alli, we all know what you think, all the time!”
“Don’t be a bitch, dear. You’ll never meet a man that way,” Allison countered.
“And God knows, I need a man,” Stacy muttered sarcastically to herself. She rose and walked into the bathroom. “Did you pick up your towels?” she asked.
“Yes, I did” replied Allison.
Stacy showered, towel dried her cropped brown hair, and grabbed a pair of jeans and a shirt from the over-crowded closet. At twenty-six she was sure she’d be in her own apartment, but a shared lease with Alli was the best she could afford.
“I’m leaving,” Allison yelled from the front hall. “Are you coming?”
“Might as well,” she replied.
“Wanna ride with us?” Allison asked, “it’s raining.”
“No thanks,” Stacy said. “I’m not ready yet. I’ll meet you there.”
She heard the door snap shut and the sound of Allison’s heels clicking down the stairs. She reached for her Doc Martens; her defense against the cold, wet streets.
He sat by the window in the coffee shop waiting. She was late. He hated it when they were late. He’d even listed “being late” as one of his pet peeves on his SoulMatch profile, yet she was late. He’d already bought the coffee, hers a latte with a whip as he’d read on her profile. Why didn’t people pay attention to details. He took the lid off her cup and very carefully added the contents of the capsule he carried in his pocket. He had worried that it would deflate the whipped cream, but he’d managed to make a small hole on the inside edge of the cup to pour it in after which the whipped cream obligingly re-filled the gap. He tapped his forefinger on the table along with the beat of the canned music he knew they played to coax customers into hanging out and spending more money. He’d spent all he intended to. He thought about the girl. He might have kept her around for a few days as he’d done with the last one, a fresh daily feeding, but not now. He laid both hands flat on the table, his fingers splayed, the tips pressed hard against the marble surface. He looked at his watch. It was 2:04. In precisely six minutes he would leave, making sure to toss both coffees in the trash on his way out. She was just one of hundreds who wanted him. He wouldn’t wait for this ten pints; he’d find another.
Stacy cut across the park enjoying the walk, paths empty of rollerbladers, strollers, and dog walkers. The rain wasn’t heavy enough for an umbrella; her hooded jacket and boots would do the job. She’d shaved ten minutes off her walk by cutting through the park. The gallery was a block or so beyond the edge of the park and with any luck, she’d have time to grab a coffee.
It was 1:58. The girl stood hesitating, looking across the street at the coffee shop. There was a man sitting at a table near the window, but she wasn’t certain it was him, although even from this distance he looked like the dark-haired photo on his profile. His face was angled away from the window, but even so it reflected the sunlight making his skin look nearly translucent. The SoulMatch guidelines had said to meet in a neutral spot. He’d chosen the coffee shop and she’d agreed. Still, she waited. She looked at her watch. It had finally given up, still reading 1:58. It must be nearly two by now. She’d wait for the next break in traffic and then cross.
Stacy saw neither the girl nor the bicyclist until she heard the sound of metal skidding on pavement. She ran to the girl and grabbed her arms, dragging her out of the street, barely avoiding the oncoming traffic. The girl’s hands were scraped raw, but there was no visible blood. She retrieved the girl’s shoe from the gutter. The girl was shivering.
“I think you ought to let somebody check you out,” she said to the girl.
“I called for help,” the bicyclist offered. “I didn’t see her; the road’s slick. She shouldn’t have been crossing there.”
Stacy ignored the bicyclist and laid her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “I think there’s help coming,” she told the girl who was alert, but rattled.
The girl nodded. She looked up. “Thanks,” she said.
“For what?” Stacy asked.
“For saving my life.”
“I didn’t really save your life,” Stacy answered, smiling down at the girl who was still sitting on the curb.
“Really, I’m fine” she said. “Do you know what time it is?”
“Sure,” Stacy replied, “It’s 2:45.”
“Too late,” the girl muttered to herself. “By the way, I’m Allison Cruor, and I really do appreciate all your help.”
“Stacy Hansen,” and believe me, it was no trouble,” she said, helping Allison to her feet.
Allison smiled and grasped the outstretched hand. As she did, she could feel the pulsing of Stacy’s young, strong heart propelling the blood through her veins. It had taken weeks for Allison to coax this guy into meeting her and now she was quite certain he hadn’t waited. She was attracted to control freaks and this guy had all the signs. She’d have to feed before long and she was sure Mr. SoulMatch was just her type. She chuckled softly at her own joke.
“Everything okay,” Stacy asked leaning toward Allison.
“Fine,” she said. “though I could use a cup of coffee.” Maybe you could help me across the street to that coffee shop. The coffee’s on me.”
Stacy barely hesitated. “Sure, why not” she said. “It’s not like I’m dying to get anywhere important.”
At that, Allison smiled and linked her arm with Stacy’s. This may work out better than she’d anticipated, she thought. It’s clearly serendipity.
Pat Tyrer is an Associate Professor of English at West Texas A&M University where she teaches Creative Writing, Film Studies, and American Literature. She writes and publishes poetry, essays, and short fiction. She recently published a monograph on Evelyn Scott, an American Modernist and is working on a second novel about an English teacher in West Texas. Her film reviews appear weekly in the Canyon News and her creative work has appeared inReaders’ Digest, Quiet Mountain: New Feminist Essays, Journal of the College Conference of Teachers of English,and The Southern Literary Journal.
Webpage: www.wtamu.edu/~ptyrer
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