Day 5: Invent a stranger you saw recently; write their secret life.
Every Tuesday, she’s on the 3:15 bus before me, blue floral bonnet and folded newspaper in hand. For the past two weeks, she’s carried a paper shopping bag with handles, gripping it tightly, as if it holds something heavier than groceries.
Something strange welled up inside me, and when she rose, I rose too, as if pulled by a magnetic fate.
She doesn’t notice me as I slip into the crowd stepping off the bus. We’re the only ones headed south, down a suburban street where every house looks copied and pasted. At the corner, she stops at a yellow house, its paint bright, almost defiant against the muted neighborhood. She lowers herself onto the grass, sets the bag beside her, and stares at the windows as though they might speak.
Her eyes, brimming yet steady, held a grief I couldn’t ignore. I shift behind a tree, heart quickening. Why am I here? I hesitate, then:
“Hi.”
Her head turns slightly toward me. She doesn’t answer, not to me. Her gaze drifts back to the house, and her voice begins, barely above a whisper, as if speaking into the air.
“My husband and I painted that house yellow the summer we bought it 40 years ago. It was just an ordinary white before, but he wanted yellow, he said the world needed more joy and more color. I called it ridiculous, worried about the neighbors, but he bought the paint anyway. We finished with it on our clothes, and just as I was about to get furious at the mess, he kissed me.” She gives a small, defiant laugh.
Her hand grazes the grass, fingers lingering as if tracing a memory. I crouch nearby, unsure if I’m intruding or invited.
“He loved music,” she continues. “Jazz, mostly. He’d pull me into the kitchen, set my hands in his, and sway until the pot on the stove boiled over. I told him I couldn’t dance. ‘Then just follow me,’ he’d say. He led gently; never pulling or pushing too hard. That was his way.”
Her fragile smile flickers. I want to speak, but her words hold me still. Say something.
“One winter I caught a terrible cold. He stayed home, made me soup. Sliced the carrots and potatoes. Onions, celery, and ginger minced to perfection." Her voice catches as she recalls the broth’s rich, savory warmth. "I ate every spoonful as he watched with this proud, boyish grin. It was the best meal I ever had, because it was made with his hands and his love.”
She pauses, her fingers brushing the bag’s handle, as if binding herself to the present.
“The garden was his joy,” she says. “He’d kneel out there for hours, dirt on his knees, sweat pooling into his shirt. All kinds of vegetables; tomatoes, peppers, and the happiest, brightest sunflowers taller than us. He’d come inside, filthy, and kiss my cheek before I could stop him. I’d scold him for tracking soil through the kitchen. He’d wink and say, ‘One day you’ll miss the dirt.’ And I do. God help me, I do.”
Her eyes close, her breathing uneven. I shift, the grass damp under my knees, wanting to ask her name, his name, anything to anchor this moment.
“It was cancer,” she says, voice steadying. “Two months ago. The fight took everything from us. He joked about hospital food even in his last days, can you believe that? He kept smiling, finding reasons to laugh, and he was so hopeful that he made me believe he wouldn’t actually leave me.”
She looks down, closing her eyes, taking a deep breath. “But when he was gone, the house felt like the walls had caved in without him to hold them up. I’d sit in the living room, staring at his empty chair by the window, his favorite blue cushion faded and worn, and I swear, I heard jazz drifting from the kitchen, and I thought I'd see him come around the corner, grinning, pulling me to dance. But it was just my mind playing tricks. I couldn’t stay there, so I moved out to somewhere way smaller. But I come back, sometimes. To sit here. To remember. To feel him, if only for a little while.”
She lifts her chin, gazing at the windows. A faint lightness softens her face, but then her expression darkens, her hand tightening on the bag. “After he passed, I found his old gun in the drawer, the one he kept for safety, he always said, though I hated it. In those first empty nights, I held it, felt its cold weight, and thought... maybe it could end the ache. Take me back to him.”
Her voice breaks, a sob catching in her throat. She shakes her head, as if shaking off the memory. “But telling his stories helps, I see that now. It’s like keeping him alive, letting the world hold him with me. I heard his laugh again for the first time in months, just from the memory of him in the kitchen."
Her gaze locks onto mine for the first time, unwavering. “Thank you,” she says, each word carrying the weight of what she’s left unsaid. Her hand rests briefly on the bag, then she rises abruptly, tucking the newspaper under her arm. “I should go,” she says, her voice firmer now, laced with a quiet resolve.
She walks down the street, the bag swinging at her side. I trail behind, keeping my distance, unsure why I can’t let her go. At the next corner, she doesn’t turn toward the bus stop. She keeps walking, past the row of houses, past the corner store. My steps falter as I see her destination.
The brick building with the flag outside. The sign over the door: Police Department.
She pauses at the steps of the police station, shoulders bowed, the bag heavy in her grip. Her fingers tighten around the handles, then release, as if wrestling with a decision. She climbs the steps and disappears inside.
I linger across the street, caught between following and turning away. The station’s glass window reflects the fading evening light, but through it, I catch a glimpse of her.
She stands at the counter, the bag between her and an officer. Her hands tremble as she slides it forward, her face a mix of resolve and release. The officer’s expression shifts, serious, careful, as he takes it, his movements deliberate. She nods once, then turns away.
When she emerges, her hands are empty. Just the newspaper, neatly folded under her arm. She seems lighter, still shadowed with grief, but unburdened of something heavier. She walks back down the street, bonnet catching the last of the sun, without glancing my way.
My breath catches. Through that window, I saw it; not the bag’s contents, but the weight of her choice. Her husband's gun, it must have been. Why else the police station? Why else the tremble, the nod, the empty hands?
One word, and her trajectory shifted as she walked here, instead of somewhere darker.
I do not know how to properly put this to words, but your ability to describe things without them sounds boring or repetitive is a very valuable skill as a writer.
ReplyDeleteA lot of what you write could just as easily come off as basic, but you're very good at evocing the feelings of actions instead of just saying what's happening.
Hey look, that was one of the things that set Pratchett apart as an author.