by anonymous
Thursday, November 2
Evening
My coffee’s kind of cold. There wasn’t really any point in making it in the first place. Today hadn’t been particularly tiring, nor was I really itching for the taste of our mediocre dark roast. But I made it anyway because I didn’t have anything better to do. And now, since the coffee was too hot and too bitter to drink right away, it’s tepid and tasteless from hours of sitting out. It’s nice, though, to have a prop to hold while I walk. I carry it with both hands as I bumble down the stairwell.
I open the door. Unfortunate— the air is bitter too. Why isn’t there anyone around? Our group is normally prone to lingering despite our constant insistence on how badly we want to go home. But, right now, it’s just so excruciatingly quiet. And cold. I can hear the sounds of my breathing and the shuffling of my feet against the concrete and the incessant sway of the bell on my backpack. And now that I’ve noticed my breathing, it’s all that I’m conscious of. I’m really just sick of it.
Headphones make everything a bit more bearable. You don’t have to listen to the wind’s attention-seeking whistling or the boisterous laughter of those two friends dragging out one last conversation before they part ways and go home. You can’t hear your breathing anymore, nor the sounds of your shoes or your backpack or any other disturbances of which you are the primary cause. But it’s a little scary that way. Am I breathing too loud? Was I mumbling or just thinking? It’s annoying to constantly perceive yourself— but it feels worse to not be able to all. So I try to walk with one ear open.
I’ve cleared the circle and most of the stragglers by now. The bridge is in sight with but one obstacle preceding it. A car, maybe a minivan. It’s the only one in an otherwise empty parking lot. There’s something weird about it— the faces in the window are obscured, or maybe my vision is just unreliable as usual. It’s familiar but not enough for me to keep staring at it without looking weird. But the car doesn’t return me the courtesy of averting its gaze; its stare is piercing despite its inanimacy. The wind is getting more intense too— it’s causing my eyes to cloud so that I see it even less clearly. How long have I been in view of the car? Space and time seem to distort themselves as I approach, my pace simultaneously too fast to remain inconspicuous and too slow to identify the source of my discomfort.
I’ve finally passed it. It seems it was unrelated to me after all. Then— HONK! The sudden noise kicks me outside of myself and back into the world. HOOONK! My coffee spills a bit. It’s louder this time. I look in the windshield and my friends wave back at me; it was them all along. They roll down the windows so that we can exchange a few words, and I walk away feeling a bit stupid.
The bridge is half obscured by a lone building’s shadow, the other half engulfed in the warmth of the setting sun. Light flows through the swaying leaves that surround it, illuminating their freshly reddened hues. I want it to feel poetic, but the sun is really just hurting my eyes. I try my best to direct my vision such that the bridge sits in the direct center of my view. It’s off, somehow. My descent to the other side is marked by the approach of two people in neon shorts and drawstring backpacks that look too small to carry anything useful (which I deduce must therefore be some sort of pointless display to seem more committed to whatever their activity is). It’s only after they pass me that I realize I had been holding my breath the whole time. Existing too loudly in front of such unassuming people just felt a bit discourteous.
I’m approaching the bend before the long haul. It’s dreadful to think about. There are almost always people passing at the same time as I am, perhaps facing the same mental distress as I do. I don’t care to commiserate with them; they’re obstacles to me right now. We have to predict which way each other will step without making eye contact with each other (lest we be forced to give the obligatory smile, or worse, the half-wave to that person you’re barely acquainted with but who would still feel offended if you ignored them completely). It’s better to just look around and preserve your ability to exist independently. Pretend to check your phone and not notice the boy’s untied shoes that he might trip on if he walks any faster; pretend to be lost in thought and not notice the woman who seems to be struggling under the weight of too many things in her hands and too many things on her mind. It’s easier that way.
But today is just so weird. And that woman looks so forlorn. She’ll look up at me in a few seconds— I think that I might owe her a smile. The countdown begins: 3… 2… I prepare my grin. She looks away. This stretch of walkway feels longer than usual.
A few minutes have passed. I’m sitting in front of the drop-off/pick-up area of a school that I don’t go to. Being here is kind of the worst, but I have to bear the gruesome twenty minutes before the bus comes. The coffee cup is still sitting tightly between my palms. Most of what remains goes down in two gulps; the rest, I can’t drink without removing the lid or flipping it upside down completely. I think I’ll just hold onto it.
It’s too cold to open my backpack and pretend to do something. It’s a large enough task just to avoid making eye contact with all the people passing by. But what’s worse is the cars. The people are an inconvenience but not impossible to deal with. I don’t know who just sat down a few feet away from me (which was rather crass, as there was plenty of space elsewhere). When they walk away, though, I can catch a brief glimpse of them and know with certainty that their perception of me has ended. But those cars— I can’t tell when they’re looking or not. I can’t tell whether they know that I’m looking or not. The red one, the blue one, the green one… they all linger too long and I can’t take it anymore. It’s impossible for cars to make eye contact, but I avoid it anyway.
I’m looking at the ground and thinking again. I probably look kind of sad. In the past, I may have used this time to greedily capture mental images. Remember, remember, remember. I may have noticed certain leaves intently clinging to their branches because it’s just not time for them to fall yet. Maybe I would have held onto the way the old man stumbled as he walked out of the building and looked around to see if anyone noticed. I doubt that I used to do this because I sensed any sort of significance in those moments. It was more that I desperately wanted to prevent the slippage of time away from me. It all feels futile now. I forget everything that I try to hold onto and remember everything that I don’t.
My phone suddenly buzzes and it startles me a bit. The honk from earlier, the buzz from just now. People are so present— and it scares me that they know I’m present too.
C⸺, I just drove past you at Gilman! I tried waving, but you weren’t looking in my direction (I was in a green car btw.). I hope the wait for Kangaroo Coach isn’t too long!
It’s that feeling again.
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