(updated 16 October)
ANGUS & JULIA STONE:
Silver Coin
 |
Somewhere in the background, there was a train going off the tracks.
All he could think about as he walked too close to the edge of the lake was that, somewhere, someone was dying. Somewhere, someone was watching a person they loved make a mistake. Somewhere, two people were laughing.
None of that was where Ian was, though. No, it was noon where he was, walking too close to a lake and thinking about all of the things that could possibly go wrong in the next ten minutes. The sun hadn’t been out in days but that wasn’t strange in England, where it was always dark and wet.
Somewhere, a girl with dark blond hair was riding a train, her long fingers that she hated wrapped around the spine of a book. Somewhere, a stranger was thinking about her.
Ian took a step forward, the mud making a sucking noise as he lifted his foot. It had been raining for days and the mud was thick, especially where he was walking too close to the edge of the lake. Every step was an effort that he kept making, because he couldn’t stand the thought of being still for another minute while somewhere, a girl was riding a train.
England was just the latest in a series of places he found himself, in between homes and in between jobs. He was getting better at making ends meet, his American dollars stretching thin in a distant savings account. He would pick up work where he could, collecting local currencies and stories. Somewhere back in the States, he had an expiration date. Where he was, he was timeless.
It began as a journey of growth, a transition from boy to man, from freshly graduated college boy to lost and freshly wounded man. He’d written that in his journal.
I’ll find myself out there, somewhere. Sure as hell won’t find myself sitting still. The same journal was still in his pocket, fraying and filled with words that at one time had felt so important, so ethereal. He had half a mind to chuck it into the lake.
The real problem was that he had underestimated people. He had underestimated how quickly a girl with dark eyes could steal into his brain, and how easily she could wrench his heart out when she wanted to. He might have been mad about it, once. Now he was only walking, always walking, in a pair of hiking boots getting worn from the aimless travel, his hands always dirty. He had underestimated the power of a touch on his arm in a crowded marché and that face floating a few inches below his, looking at him with those damn eyes. He was in France; what else was he supposed to do?
Woke up and she was gone. Should have known. Should have known better.
That was in his journal, too. He kept it always in his pocket because he couldn’t bear the thought of anyone seeing him like she had seen him, straight through to the little, struggling heart in his chest. She was the one who told him to keep writing. Now he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t bear the thought of being alone.
There was a cottage on the other side of the lake, which belonged to an old woman he had seen out in the garden as he passed. He had gone halfway around the lake in just a few minutes, it felt like. The cottage was nearly invisible on the opposite shore, but he could feel it, feel that old woman’s gaze from across the lake. He was sure she was watching him. Somewhere in the journal in his pocket, there was a picture of a girl that he couldn’t bring himself to look at, but couldn’t throw away.
The restlessness that was never far from him kicked in. He itched underneath that look. His eyes burned. His steps came quicker, and he moved away from the shore and broke into a jog. Somewhere, that girl was smiling at someone else, touching someone else’s arm.
Maybe Spain. Maybe Italy. Maybe he could get out of the rain and get out of his skin and just be. Maybe he could get away from everything. Get a haircut. Use up the last of the French euros he had in his wallet, weighing him down.
His sister was probably worried sick. Maybe he could send her a postcard or something. Something with sunshine. Something reassuring. Something to let her know that he was still alive, in the literal sense, still breathing, still walking.
I miss you is all it would say. He would send it to his sister but it would be meant for some other girl, some girl on a train reading a secondhand copy of The Sun Also Rises and sitting next to a stranger, smiling at him whenever he pointed at the scenery and tried to be romantic about it. Some girl with gold hair and dark eyes and long fingers that she hated. Some girl who whispered "I’m Emilie" in the middle of a crowded market.
All he could think about as he walked too close to the edge of the lake was that, somewhere, someone was dying. Somewhere, someone was watching a person they loved make a mistake. Somewhere, two people were laughing.
None of that was where Ian was, though. No, it was noon where he was, walking too close to a lake and thinking about all of the things that could possibly go wrong in the next ten minutes. The sun hadn’t been out in days but that wasn’t strange in England, where it was always dark and wet.
Somewhere, a girl with dark blond hair was riding a train, her long fingers that she hated wrapped around the spine of a book. Somewhere, a stranger was thinking about her.
Ian took a step forward, the mud making a sucking noise as he lifted his foot. It had been raining for days and the mud was thick, especially where he was walking too close to the edge of the lake. Every step was an effort that he kept making, because he couldn’t stand the thought of being still for another minute while somewhere, a girl was riding a train.
England was just the latest in a series of places he found himself, in between homes and in between jobs. He was getting better at making ends meet, his American dollars stretching thin in a distant savings account. He would pick up work where he could, collecting local currencies and stories. Somewhere back in the States, he had an expiration date. Where he was, he was timeless.
It began as a journey of growth, a transition from boy to man, from freshly graduated college boy to lost and freshly wounded man. He’d written that in his journal.
I’ll find myself out there, somewhere. Sure as hell won’t find myself sitting still. The same journal was still in his pocket, fraying and filled with words that at one time had felt so important, so ethereal. He had half a mind to chuck it into the lake.
The real problem was that he had underestimated people. He had underestimated how quickly a girl with dark eyes could steal into his brain, and how easily she could wrench his heart out when she wanted to. He might have been mad about it, once. Now he was only walking, always walking, in a pair of hiking boots getting worn from the aimless travel, his hands always dirty. He had underestimated the power of a touch on his arm in a crowded marché and that face floating a few inches below his, looking at him with those damn eyes. He was in France; what else was he supposed to do?
Woke up and she was gone. Should have known. Should have known better.
That was in his journal, too. He kept it always in his pocket because he couldn’t bear the thought of anyone seeing him like she had seen him, straight through to the little, struggling heart in his chest. She was the one who told him to keep writing. Now he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t bear the thought of being alone.
There was a cottage on the other side of the lake, which belonged to an old woman he had seen out in the garden as he passed. He had gone halfway around the lake in just a few minutes, it felt like. The cottage was nearly invisible on the opposite shore, but he could feel it, feel that old woman’s gaze from across the lake. He was sure she was watching him. Somewhere in the journal in his pocket, there was a picture of a girl that he couldn’t bring himself to look at, but couldn’t throw away.
The restlessness that was never far from him kicked in. He itched underneath that look. His eyes burned. His steps came quicker, and he moved away from the shore and broke into a jog. Somewhere, that girl was smiling at someone else, touching someone else’s arm.
Maybe Spain. Maybe Italy. Maybe he could get out of the rain and get out of his skin and just be. Maybe he could get away from everything. Get a haircut. Use up the last of the French euros he had in his wallet, weighing him down.
His sister was probably worried sick. Maybe he could send her a postcard or something. Something with sunshine. Something reassuring. Something to let her know that he was still alive, in the literal sense, still breathing, still walking.
I miss you is all it would say. He would send it to his sister but it would be meant for some other girl, some girl on a train reading a secondhand copy of The Sun Also Rises and sitting next to a stranger, smiling at him whenever he pointed at the scenery and tried to be romantic about it. Some girl with gold hair and dark eyes and long fingers that she hated. Some girl who whispered "I’m Emilie" in the middle of a crowded market.
