Lost Words

From time to time I wonder about Maria, those words and that piece of paper, now, I suppose, long since turned to dust and scattered far and wide on London winds, eternally unread, an invisible subtext in both our lives. She wrote the words with a single reader in mind and that reader, being me, was careless with the affections they contained. I remember I placed the note in my pocket following her implicit instructions to the letter. “Read this later”, she said as she handed it to me, nervously, freefall blushing, as she always seemed to be, although this for once felt like something that warranted a blush. She was smiling, a strange gummy smile, as she turned. I did something like a move or gesture towards her. I too blushed as I stuttered something approaching the first syllable of her name, but before my words could find any shape or form, she’d disappeared, leaving me standing there, in that crowd of colleagues with her words in my hand, silently screaming to be read.

Gradually I realised I had a problem. I felt angry. ‘Fuck’, I inhaled, as an ordinary day was now a day with an edge, added to which a new layer of meaning began to spread across the brief history of our relationship. Midnight had struck for Cinderella and pumpkins were appearing everywhere. Unfortunately Maria’s fairy godmother hadn’t arranged it with her prince and I wasn’t about to go chasing after her. Don’t get me wrong, I liked Maria, however, already the anticipation of the rejection, and the threat that posed to our friendship, filled me with discomfort. I needed to read what she’d handed me but I still had at least two more hours of meetings to go.

The envelope weighed heavily in my pocket as I sat silently through meetings in which I was normally talkative. As soon as I could I slipped out of the room and made my way to the bus stop. The wind was swirling and bellowing through the tightly packed streets of the City, making me feel light and insubstantial, a scrap of tossed around and blowing nowhere in particular. I felt pushed around. Head bowed and hands in pocket I passed through the smartly clad City crowds. The wind unsettled the purposeful comfort of the well heeled workers. In the distance I saw my bus approaching and ran. I remember running as if my life depended on it. I wanted to be on that bus. I wanted this over with. I crashed through people, dodged others, sweetly sidestepped a red post box before leaping onto the back of the old double decker that had just moved away from the stop. The conductor frowned at my efforts as I quickly found a seat and reached into my pocket. I searched. Where was it!! I searched again, this time with care. NO!!! It’d gone. I rushed to the back of the bus, nearly tripping over an outstretched leg. I looked out the window at the crowds in the retreating distance and the angry unsettled wind scattering thousands of leaves and scraps of paper about their lives.

Peter Zelaskowski