Anyway, here it is. Sorry about the format.
She looked like the kind of girl Paul McCartney would have written a song about. The thought occurred to Will as he stood at the window, watching her sip coffee in the small café across the street. He tried to think of the right words to describe her: graceful, lovely, radiant…it all sounded so cheesy, like a bad Hallmark card. He was an artist, not a writer; he preferred pictures to words.
The sound of his own name pulled Will back to reality. His boss, Josie, was telling him to get a move on.
“Those tables won’t clean themselves, Will,” she said, balancing a tray of food as she bustled by.
He nodded in embarrassment at her stern gaze. This wasn’t the first time she’d caught him staring blankly out the window. He turned back to his work; the last thing he wanted was to get fired. He lifted the bucket of dirty plates, cups, and silverware off the table and wove his way toward the swinging door in the back of the restaurant. The kitchen was buzzing with life as the cooks tried to keep up with the flurry of orders coming in for lunch. Will ignored the shouts of “eighty-six the onions” and “order-up” as he began scrubbing the dishes clean, his mind drifting across the street to the empty chair sitting across from the girl in the busy café.
“Is there anybody going to listen to my story all about the girl who came to stay…"
Will’s shift ended at 4:30, right before the dinner rush picked up. He buttoned his coat, flipped up his collar, and stepped out into the chilly evening. He glanced across the street to the café to see The Girl – he didn’t know her name – turn the page of whatever book she was reading, a half-smile curling the corners of her mouth. He entertained the idea of walking across the street, entering the warm café, and introducing himself, but he knew he couldn't do that. As far as he was concerned, the one-way street that separated them every day was impassible, an invisible wall between her world and his own. He was an observer of her universe and nothing more, unable to reach through the telescope to touch the distant stars. To breach that divide would destroy the fragile link he'd forged between them as viewer and subject.
He shook the thought from his head and sat down on the bench in front of Floyd's Pizza to wait for his sister. He didn't have a car of his own, so he had to share one with his sister. She took classes at the university down the street, and she didn't get out of class until after his shift ended. He didn’t mind the wait, even when his fingers started to go numb from cold. Will was content to watch The Girl, enjoying the frequent bursts of laughter that punctuated her smiles as she sat at her computer.
Sometimes he took out his sketchbook and drew her, but only when it was warm enough that his hand wouldn’t cramp up. The first time he drew her, it hadn't been intentional. He'd found himself doodling on the back of a receipt one afternoon after she'd first started coming to the café, and he realized when he'd finished that he'd drawn a picture of her. After that, he couldn't seem to stop himself from drawing her again and again, even though he realized it was an odd thing to do. He didn't tell anyone about his drawings, but he didn't think it was a big deal. He often sketched strangers that he saw, and he told himself that this was no different. He was never going to meet her, so what did it matter if he drew pictures of a pretty girl across the street?
It was too cold that day to draw, so Will leaned back against the bench and simply watched her. He was a little worried that she would look up and see him staring at her, but she was much too engrossed in her typing to notice the likes of him. She was beautiful and interesting, and he was just a skinny, 19-year-old busboy with cropped hair and too many pimples. They were worlds apart, and Will felt every inch.
The Girl had bushy black hair that fell down her back in long, curling waves. She often wore a ponytail or headband to keep it pulled back, but today, she didn’t seem to mind that it was falling in her face. Every now and then, she’d pause in her typing, pushing a hand through the curls to hold them back for a moment as she reread what she'd written. The curls would inevitably fall forward again when she resumed her typing and needed both hands. She wore a thick, overlarge, green sweater that fell past her waist, brown jeans, and ankle boots. She had one leg tucked underneath her, and the other one swung freely under her chair. When she got really into whatever she was writing, she’d lean forward, moving her face closer to the bright screen. Her eyes would widen, and her fingers would fly across the keyboard. It was the most adorable thing he’d ever seen.
Will couldn’t help but be attracted by her. She seemed incredibly cool to him. (God, did he really just call her “cool?”) She gave off an air of sophistication and carelessness; perhaps it had something to do with seeing her in a café every day. She always seemed so relaxed, like nothing in the world was more important than typing at her computer while sipping a cup of coffee. He’d never seen her upset in any way; her café visits were punctuated with smiles and laughter. Will envied and admired her careless happiness; he and anxiety were close friends. He could never let go of the idea that everyone around him was watching and judging his every move, even if he knew that wasn’t true. The Girl didn’t seem to care who was watching her or what they might think. It was in the way she carried herself and the way she interacted with her surroundings. She exuded confidence through her every movement.
Will wondered what she might be writing. He figured it might be a college paper or maybe even a blog. She looked like the blogging type. Her blog would be filled with jokes and references he wouldn’t understand, intelligent banter that would go way over his head. He momentarily wished he knew her name. He wanted to see if he could find whatever she was writing online. But then he remembered the barrier, the separate worlds, and the link through separation that he didn't want to break.
He watched in fascination as she closed her computer and sat back in her chair for a moment. She ruffled her hair slightly and looked around the café like she was seeing it for the first time, like she'd just woken up from a vivid dream. She shook her head slightly, slipped her computer back into her bag, and took one last sip of her coffee before tossing her cup into a trashcan and heading for the door.
A car stopped directly in front of Will, startling him and blocking his view of The Girl. His sister, Courtney, rolled down the window a crack and shouted for him to hurry and get in the car. As he stood to open the car door, Will glanced over at the café window, hoping to catch one last glimpse of her, but she was already gone.
“Thoughts meander like a restless wind inside a letter box. They tumble blindly as they make their way across the universe…”
Will thought of it as their routine. It was a constant in his life, and the only thing he looked forward to. The Girl appeared at the café early in the afternoon and generally stayed until 5 or 6. Will spent his shift relishing the rare glimpses he got of her throughout the day, then he would sit and either watch or draw her from his usual spot in front of Floyd’s until his sister showed up. It was well-established that The Girl never left first – she remained at the café until Courtney picked him up. He wasn’t sure what she did or where she went once he was gone. He’d once considered following her to find out, but then he’d sternly reminded himself that that was called stalking, and he shouldn’t be such a creep. Will wasn't a stalker, he was just an observer. He wasn't a threat. He didn't even want to meet her; he just liked to watch innocently. What was the harm in that?
It was also a given that she always spent her time in the café by herself. In the month or so that they’d followed this schedule, Will had never once seen anyone else sitting with her. He figured she had a boyfriend (she had to have a boyfriend…look at her!), but she was always alone. Will thought maybe the café was her place, a place where she could be alone. He respected that, envied it, even. He felt privileged to be able to share in this time with her, even if she didn't know he was there. It was another reason he could never speak to her. He didn't want to ruin the magic of her café.
A shout from downstairs startled Will back into the present. His parents were fighting again downstairs. He couldn't hear exactly what was being said, but he didn't need to. He'd heard it all before, and he didn't want to listen to it again. He turned up the volume on his record player to drown out the hostile voices.
He was sitting in his room, his sketchpad open to a series of drawings of her he’d done earlier in the week before a cold front had come through and spoiled the weather. Drawing was the one thing in life that Will knew he was good at. As long as he held a pencil in his hand, he could forget everything else in his life: his parents, the fighting, his own failures and mistakes. He could put the fact of his own boring, stagnant existence out of his mind and just let the images flow through his arm and onto the blank page in front of him. That’s when everything seemed right with the world.
He looked through the sketches, fixing a few errors, adding a mark or two to improve the picture. He couldn’t help but be impressed by his own skill. He’d managed to capture the essence of her on paper, tiny details he felt sure no one but him ever noticed: the way her mouth curled slightly at the corners when she was amused, the way her hands rested lightly on the table beside her, the way she leaned over her book or computer whenever she was interested in what she was doing. He’d noticed how she absentmindedly tapped her fingers or curled a lock of hair around her finger whenever she was deep in concentration. She tilted her head slightly to the side when she was confused or thoughtful about something - he could tell the difference: confusion meant a furrowed brow, but thoughtful meant looking at the sky through the window). He almost felt as though he knew her intimately.
He thought of meeting her, introducing himself, having an actual conversation with her, but he never let that fantasy go far. He couldn't even picture himself crossing the street, much less entering the café and actually speaking to her. Though his thoughts were mostly comprised of images, that was the one thing he couldn't picture.
He added one flourishing line to one of his sketches before putting them away. He switched out the records and put on his favorite Beatles album instead, setting the needle to his favorite song. Leaning back in his desk chair, he closed his eyes and pictured her: graceful, beautiful…he didn’t care how cheesy it sounded. She moved and swayed, dancing in his mind’s eye as he sang along to the soft sound of the music:
“Living is easy with eyes closed, misunderstanding all you see…Strawberry Fields Forever…”
Will stood at the window in shock, his rag lying forgotten on the table he was supposed to be cleaning. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the empty table in the café across the street. She wasn’t there. He craned his neck, trying to get a glimpse of the other tables; she had to be there somewhere. She couldn’t just not be there. She was always there.
He was distracted throughout the rest of his shift. Josie yelled at him several times that he needed to get his act together. He kept leaving cups on tables, forgetting to wipe the table down, not rinsing dishes and putting them in the drying rack still covered in soap. He didn’t understand why she wasn’t there. What had happened? Had he missed something, some subconscious sign that she was changing up their routine?
Josie let him off early that day - Will hoped that wasn’t a bad sign. He couldn’t help glancing up at her table again as he stepped out into the cold afternoon. Still empty. Disappointment crashed over him when he realized he wouldn’t see her today. If he couldn’t rely on their routine, there was even a chance - he admitted it was slim and a little overdramatic - that he’d never see her again. The thought depressed him.
Courtney asked him what was wrong when she picked him up half an hour later, but he avoided her question. How could he tell her he was disappointed at the disappearance of a girl he didn't even know? She'd think he was crazy.
The Girl didn't make an appearance for the rest of the week and all through the next. He was starting to give up on ever seeing her again. He hadn't sketched since he last saw her. When The Girl disappeared, she'd taken all his passion and energy with her.
Things at home had gotten worse. Will and Courtney came home one night to find their father drunk and their mother gone. She didn't come back until the next night, and everything was quiet for a few days until the fighting started again, worse than ever. Will and Courtney didn't talk about it. They each turned up their music and pretended that all hell was not breaking loose downstairs. That was the way it had always been. Will hated it.
Even Josie had noticed that something was wrong. His work performance was suffering. She'd tried to talk to him about it, but Will just shrugged her off. She gave him a few days off to gather his thoughts. Will knew she didn't want to fire him, that he wasn't giving her much of a choice, but he couldn't seem to shake the feeling that none of it mattered anymore. Everything just felt like a deep shade of grey, and he didn't want to deal with any of it. Will didn't want to think about his job, his parents, or his own lack of purpose. Who was he, anyway? What difference did he make to anyone? He wished he could sleep through the next few months or maybe even years, just to get away from the nauseating thoughts that pierced him like knives whenever they surfaced. Even getting up in the morning took a monumental amount of effort. Will felt like he was moving through life in a thick haze of fog, and he was unable to reach through to the other side no matter how hard he ploughed through.
He tried not to think of The Girl. He knew it was a bit strange that he missed her so much, but he couldn't help it. She'd brought a certain light to his life that he'd been missing ever since she left. He didn't know exactly why, but he'd looked forward to seeing her every day. She inspired him and made him feel like the world was full of endless possibility. Now that she was gone, nothing felt worthwhile. Even drawing felt more like a chore than any sort of relief. Sleep was the only thing that really held his interest. He didn't know what was wrong with him. He just knew that life felt incredibly difficult these days.
His sister had class on Wednesdays, so she drove Will to work in the morning before her early class. Will didn't remember that Josie had given him the day off until after Courtney had driven away. He pulled out his phone to call her, but then changed his mind. She was already running late, and he'd just have to go to school with her anyway. He'd much rather spend the morning here than at the university, surrounded by people who were actually doing something with their lives. He didn't want to be reminded of what a total failure he was at life.
Will couldn't help glancing up at the window of the café as he shuffled over to his normal perch in front of Floyd's. Nor could he stop the tiny bubble of hope that bloomed inside his chest as he did so. The disappointment was that much worse when he saw that her table was empty. No sign of her at all. He cursed himself for getting his hopes up. It was just one more bitter disappointment he could add to his growing list.
It was freezing outside, and Will started to shiver. He refused to enter Floyd's Pizzeria on principle, so he was stuck out here sitting on this bench, freezing his ass off. The thought occurred to him that this was going to be a terrible day. He shook his head. It wasn't the first, and he was sure it wouldn't be the last.
He didn't have anything to do but stare at the café window. He sat there in the freezing cold, eyes glued to the empty window until he couldn't stand it anymore. He couldn't look at that damn window for another second. He dug through his bag and found his sketchbook. Will didn't know what to draw, didn't feel any desire to draw at all, but he'd do just about anything to avoid looking at that window. He didn’t care how cold it was.
He grabbed the pen he always kept in his front pocket and began to hack away at the page, viciously scrawling line after line, not paying any mind to what sort of monster was forming underneath his hand. Ink bled across the paper. His vision blurred from the icy wind, and he felt as though his hand were being pierced by needles. But he didn't stop. He couldn't stop, and he didn't want to. After a week of feeling nothing but grey and fog, Will felt something different. It was small, barely perceptible, but he felt something in the pit of his stomach. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but it felt slightly better than what had been there before. So he kept drawing.
After half an hour, he could barely move his hand. It had started to sleet, and the freezing slush chilled Will to the bone and melted onto his drawing. He tucked the sketchpad inside his coat and looked around for a covered area to sit. There wasn't anywhere to go but into Floyd's, but that was the last place in the world he wanted to be. Will looked around again, desperately searching for a place to finish his drawing. He could already feel the tiny bit of goodness that had crept into him while he drew fading away, and he needed to stop it from disappearing completely. He swept his eyes around wildly, his wet hair slinging bits of ice and freezing water into his face. Finally, his eyes lit upon the one place where he could go, the one place he would never have considered in a million years.
He stared at the empty café window, trying to calm his racing heart. She's not there, he told himself. She's not there. So what does it matter? He stepped into the street just as a car came racing by. The driver didn't even have a chance to hit the brakes before Will was cascading over the window shield and rolling over the back of the car to smack back onto the pavement. The faded black car skid to a halt, and a girl with dark, curly hair stepped out of the vehicle, pretty eyes wide with fear.
"Oh my God!" she said, softly at first, then in a loud screech. "Oh my God! Somebody help! Help me! Help him! Oh my God!"
She ran over to Will's limp form. Tears streamed down her face, and he hands shook as she touched him. He didn't make a sound as she turned him over onto his back and wiped the blood streaming from the corner of his mouth with the sleeve of her sweater. His torso was covered in something black, and she realized a pen had burst, spilling ink everywhere.
"I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry," The Girl crooned as people ran up, shouting for someone to call 911.
There was a paramedic inside the café, and he rushed over to Will and crouched down next to The Girl.
"Are you all right? What's your name?" he asked her.
"Lorraine. And yes, I'm fine, I'm fine. Please help him," she sobbed, rocking back and forth.
The man touched Will's face lightly, then put two fingers to Will's neck. Another paramedic, a woman, approached from behind and put a hand on the man's shoulder. He looked up at her and gave a nearly imperceptible shake of his head, but Lorraine saw.
"No! No!" she screamed. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Oh please, God, no!"
Someone dragged Lorraine away from Will's body as an ambulance approached. The paramedics lifted his body onto a stretcher, laying a white sheet over his bruised face before carrying him away. Lorraine finally broke free from her restraint and fell onto the ground beside where Will had been lying, sobs wracking their way violently through her body.
Through the haze of tears, Lorraine saw something on the ground beside her. Still shaking and crying, she picked it up. It was a sketchbook. She figured it must have belonged to the boy she just…no, she wouldn't even let that thought form.
Knowing she had no right to anything of his, she flipped open the cover. It was hard to tell through all the mud, sleet, and tears, but Lorraine thought the drawings were breathtaking. The Boy clearly had talent, and now because of her…no, she had to stop. She couldn't do this. Her eyes filled with tears once again.
She turned a few more pages. The Boy had liked drawing people, apparently. He must have known these people well to have captured such an intimate image of each of them. She felt like she knew them just from seeing his drawings. Then she turned another page, and the book suddenly became a mirror. Lorraine stared at herself through the eyes of a boy she would never know and felt a sweeping wave of sorrow and regret. She flipped through countless images of herself writing, reading, sipping coffee. The Boy had to have been watching her for ages, but she'd never seen him before in her life. She didn't understand.
The next page almost made her drop the book. She tried to steady her hands to read the words forming a perfect image of her face, eyes closed, looking so peacefully asleep she could be dead. She recognized the words. They were the lyrics to a song she knew well. A Beatles song…"Strawberry Fields Forever."
She mouthed the words to herself, crying quietly. "Let me take you down, 'cause I'm going to…strawberry fields. Nothing is real. And nothing to get hung about. Strawberry Fields Forever…" The word hung formed a noose around her neck.
"What have I done?" she whispered to herself. But The Boy couldn't answer her, and neither could the lifeless girl he'd left behind in splattered in ink.
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