~
Sparkle
Tia Green stood in the hammering rain in the middle of a street. She looked to the side of the road; the footpath was a few feet away. There was no-one around, there was no wind and no sound. She had no idea why she was there. A moment ago she was at work.
The rain stopped. The sun came out. The birds began to sing.
She was wet, almost to the skin. Why hadn’t she put up an umbrella? What was going on in her head, it was pathetic. She hadn’t been at work, she was going to work. It was first thing in the morning, a little after eight. Hadn’t she left home on time?
Her heart sprinted as she looked up and then bolted for the footpath. What a ridiculous bloody idiot. As she trudged towards the train station, her feet squelched in cold, scuffed shoes, her teeth chattered, shame filled her burning cheeks, her head was hung low. She must have lost her marbles to be standing vacantly in the middle of the street for all to see.
A woman roughly pushed past her.
“Sorry,” Tia said, quietly.
Wait a minute, the woman hadn’t pushed past her, she had rudely pushed in front of her. Who did the old bat think she was? She should say something, stand up for herself. Instead, she dug her chipped nails into the palms of her hands. What would be the point in making a scene? Stupidity was something she excelled at, why encourage it.
She looked at her black plastic watch, but was unable to see it properly, her glasses were wet. She hunted for a tissue, even a torn, scrunched up used one would do. Her train was going to be here any second. Come on, come on. The man at the front of the queue left, latte in hand, and ran for the platform. Was that wheel squeal she could hear in the distance?
“Erm, now, let me see,” the woman who had pushed in front of her said loudly. “What do I want?”
A poke in the eye? A stamp on the foot? A dig in the ribs? Take your pick.
“Hmm, yes, I’ll have a skinny cappuccino.”
The doors slid closed with a resounding thud just as Tia was about to jump on the packed, graffiti-ridden train. Damn it. As the train pulled away, she caught sight of the rude woman, stood by the door, sipping her cappuccino. Perhaps she’d burn her throat.
Fifteen minutes later, and five minutes late, another train arrived. She glared at her watch, willing the second hand to slow down. Maybe things would be fine, there was still time to be on time. The train doors slid open with a pained screech and a groan, and a dozen tired, sullen faces glanced wearily at her. A couple of boys listened to mp3 players turned up to eleven, workmen in their dusty and paint stained t-shirts and ripped jeans sat on rusty tool boxes, while sharply suited men and women strained to read newspapers, or just stared blankly at the carriage’s grubby, wet floor, masterfully avoiding each other’s glances. Well, it didn’t matter how many were on the train, she had to get to work.
The doors slid closed and trapped her black raincoat. A quiet, still voice in the back of her mind knew that giving it a good hard tug was not the thing to do, and the material ripped loudly as she did so. Oh, now that was just wonderful. She couldn’t afford repairs; it was days until payday, and even then, she couldn’t afford it. It was muggy, she was wet, the people around her were wet, the person next to her had seriously bad breath, she was perilously close to running late and now her coat had long tear in it.
As the train inched painfully slowly towards the filthy city, she glanced up and stared at a tall man’s greying nasal hair.
The train slowed to a stop.
“Sorry for the delay,” the driver said, “this is due to …”
The sound faded to silence. It didn’t matter what the driver said, for it meant only one thing, she would be late. Her teeth clenched as she stood rigid, her breathing racing.
It was eleven minutes past nine. She furiously shook her umbrella, yanked the door open and just as she was about to pelt it into the office, she saw Nick marching toward her. What possessed people to invent open plan offices? Why couldn’t there be just a little room for her to duck into so he could simply wander by without noticing her, but no, little rooms didn’t exist anymore. It was a conspiracy. Now the weasel would see for sure she was late.
Her glasses promptly steamed up as she stepped into the overheated office. She glanced over the thick lenses and could just make out Nick’s pursed lips and exaggerated a stare at his bony wrist. Perhaps if he shook his head a bit more vigorously it would fall off. Wouldn’t that be fun?
“I’ll talk to you later, Tia,” Nick said. He should have been born a drill sergeant.
“That bloody man,” Tia spat, as she took off her dripping coat and held it in front of her, the rip was a good ten centimetres in length. “All I wanted was some coffee.”
“I’ve often wondered what it would be like to just say a few words and have the whole world understand you.”
“Michael, I’m sorry.” She turned to her colleague. “Some geriatric idiot pushed in front of me in the coffee shop and made me miss the train.”
“Why’d you leave it so late?”
“I … I hadn’t.” Even if there were eight or nine people in the shuffling queue, she had always managed to buy a cup of steaming coffee and be on the platform for the train a good five minutes before it pulled up to the platform.
She looked at Michael and shook her head in bemusement. He smiled at her, kindly, warmly. He had a gorgeous smile and a beautiful face. Actually, come to think of it, he really wasn’t that good looking at all: he had a funny chin and thick eyebrows, but there was something seriously hot about him. That cute little ass, maybe. No, stop it, now. He had a wife. Not to mention her boyfriend, Craig, was in her creaky bed sleeping off his night shift.
She sat, sighed, and turned to her aging computer.
“Yes, is that the I.T. helpdesk?” Tia asked, cradling the slim phone against her shoulder. “I can’t get into my email again … It won’t open … It just won’t open … No, I don’t know.” If I knew what was wrong would I be phoning you? “I just can’t … okay … right.” Double click on this. “Yep.” Double click on that, and, well what do you know, zilch. “Nothing, once again.” What was it with her and machines? “Reboot?” How original.
“Bloody hell,” she spat, as paper jammed in the ancient printer … again.
Another file was dropped in her overflowing in-tray.
She knocked a plastic cup of water over her keyboard.
Inside, she screamed and screamed until her head exploded.
Her gaze was on the indifferent white tiling, as she absently stirred her instant coffee. The hell with it, she added another heaped teaspoon of white sugar. And then another. Loving sickly sweetness, how could I not adore you? If only everything could be sweetness. But then, why was it everything she loved was so terribly bad for her? The hell with it, with each sip, she relaxed another delicious degree. Caffeinated sugar was a wonderful way to calm the mind.
“So -” She jolted, spilling coffee on her arm. “- why were you late?”
Pain charged through her. Was that really necessary? Her hands shook as she slowly and carefully placed the mug on the counter and turned to Nick, who stood tall in the tight doorway to the office’s confined kitchen, arms folded, exit blocked. The stinging gave way to throbbing.
“Well?” he asked.
Her breathing steadied as she wiped the cooling coffee from the sleeve of her white blouse with a tissue. “Look, I’m sorry. I missed my train, I didn’t mean to.” Just don’t ask about the keyboard.
“With this much work to do you will make an effort to be in on time.”
With this much work to do why aren’t you out there doing some of it?
“This isn’t the first time you’ve been late this month, is it?”
Her cheeks burned as she looked up at him, shaking her head vigorously. That wasn’t true and he damn well knew it.
“Your appraisal is due tomorrow and I’ll be the one writing it.”
Her heart pounded, she felt sure it was threatening to leap out of her chest. “Yes, I know.” She couldn’t face another year without a pay rise or a bonus. She desperately needed to get her credit card bill cleared, and she worked as hard for the damned company as anyone else. And that included the office tramps that regularly dropped their designer pants and miraculously received healthy pay rises.
Nick looked back into the corridor, and then stepped into the kitchen until they were toe to toe. His face softened.
“You do know it’s not me, it’s the pressure Rita puts on me.”
She nodded her head as she backed into the kitchen counter. He ran his hand over her arm, his fingers skirting the damp patch. It was as though every cell in her being had locked.
“I want to give you a great appraisal.”
She wanted to shove a red hot iron in his face.
He smiled crookedly.
Huffing, she slumped back in her chair, her face dropping into her hands. Her brow creased and her stomach tightened as a lump promptly grew in her throat. No, no and absolutely no to public displays of pathetic weakness.
It was one twenty. Well, she was damned if she was going to work through another unpaid lunch hour. Cooling air was needed, a brisk walk to clear out the rancid energy from her veins. Actually, what she really wanted was a little therapy, or perhaps even a lot.
She held out the short black skirt before her. It was perfect, divine. She had just the pair of delightful, strappy party heels to go with it. All eyes would be on trim Tia as she danced sensuously on Saturday night, her trusted girlfriends from way back would admire and complement her taste, and chiselled men in elegant suits would but her cocktails and ask for her number. Rubbish. Even if it was black she’d look fat in it. It would certainly show off something: stumpy tree trunk legs that stuck out from below a giggling mountain sized arse covered in black material stretched to near tearing. Not to mention the fact she couldn’t afford it. A tin of beans would be luxury.
God, if only she was a size eight. And while on the subject, if only she was a tall, curvy bombshell instead of a bumpy, little thing in desperate need of some serious exercise. If only she had light, bouncy blonde hair instead of the boring straight brown mess lumped indifferently on top her itching scalp. If only she had luscious full red lips and crystal green eyes instead of pale thin lips and sagging black bags under mud coloured eyes. A sprinkling of faint freckles over silken skin would be nice as well, instead of thick cheap make-up to hide the three huge spots that were on the verge of erupting across her face. A cute, little heart shaped bum to go with her full, well shaped …
Who or what was she kidding? Her wardrobe was ridiculous, pitiful, and she certainly didn’t have flash strappy heels for a foxy skirt. Why did people think shopping made them feel better? Did it make her trains run on time? Did it solve the fact she wanted to rip Nick’s throat out? Did it make Craig treat her any better?
Her mind’s eye saw her workload piled higher than a skyscraper. She grunted and hung the apparently gorgeous skirt back on the rail.
“Hiya hon,” she said to Miranda. “Oh, I just need to chat.” She stared at her monitor. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb. Are you in tonight?” Her brain was slushy, sloshing mush. “It’s just work and, you know, stuff that grinds.” What was she doing in this deathly dull job? “All right, sweetie, I’ll call you later.” Refusing to put the receiver down meant not having to look at the spreadsheet. It was elegant logic.
“I know,” Marie said, to Tia’s right. “I said to her, Liz, he’s not going to like it and she said, well, I don’t care and I said, well you better, there are girls here that don’t like it when you’re flirt with their boyfriends and she said …”
“I know, I know,” Julie interrupted, stood next to Marie. “Have you seen her after just one glass of wine, she’s all over them like a rash with her tight tops and her skirts that look like belts? I tell you, John wouldn’t stand for it if I was like that. Not that I care about what he thinks. He can go and …”
“Don’t get me started on men,” Anna said. “My Jason’s as bad as you’re John. Four pints of larger and he thinks he’s God’s gift. I tell you, when he’s drunk, if his thing was half as enthusiastic as he is I’d have no complaints.”
It wasn’t laughing; it was the cackling of gnarled witches as they were about to fly off into the night hunting prey. Tia glanced at the gossiping girls from the corner of her eye and saw them with the years piled on, their skin slack, mottled and wrinkled, white hair in plastic curlers under worn and faded headscarves, their taste in decency long gone, still wittering on about so and so and what he or she had done and when and how and why it was so terrible because they had said and behaved in such a way and, I know, Martha, tell me more, more, more rattling, prattling, rolling bloody noise, for God’s sake why wouldn’t they just shut up? Why was this endless conversation over glossy magazines full of pictures of perfect teeth, perfect spouses and perfect lives so fascinating? Why couldn’t she connect? Why had she been born a mouse?
Aloneness prowled the backdrop of her mind as emptiness echoed through her. She stared at her screen, the spreadsheet had become a blur of colour and random characters that vaguely formed letters and numbers.
“We don’t see her very often …” No, no. “It gives me great pleasure …” Not quite. “She graces the covers of our …” Nope. “Truly one of the brightest stars in the galaxy today, and we don’t see her give interviews very often, so, ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great pleasure to welcome the enigmatic, the vibrant, the dearly loved, Tia Green.” The audience goes wild, as she gracefully enters from stage left and throws a little wave, casually dressed in a designer silk blouse, blue jeans and cowboy boots. Another file landed on the top of her in-tray with a sickening thud.
There were fifty copies of a thirty page report to copy and bind. The melodic sound of the grey behemoth soothed her mind; finally she stood restfully still as the photocopier happily munched its way through a rain forest. It was a pause in which peace had managed to make an entrance through a side door. She smiled.
Nick’s hand lightly brushed her buttocks as he walked by.
Bastard.
There was a bang and a puff of acrid smoke from the photocopier, followed by the lights going out with a moan as a groan rippled across the office.
In the semidarkness, she picked up the phone and dialled home. They had been forced to sit at their desks twiddling their thumbs for over an hour without power. The gossiping girls revelled in Nick and Rita’s distress, as they acidly commented on their attempts to sort out the loss of electricity. The line connected and bleeped in her ear. Engaged again. What was keeping Craig on the phone?
Michael sat down opposite her. She couldn’t help it, she smiled broadly. It was criminal the way her heart lit up when he was around.
“Well,” he said, “I think Rita’s going let us go.”
Her feelings were ridiculous.
“Oh?”
Would he be kind to her, gentle?
“Yeah, I managed to catch her in the corridor; she’s been on to head office.”
Did he make love slowly, tenderly?
“Uh-huh?”
Or would he be passionately rough with her?
“Maybe in ten minutes or so.”
Either would be fine.
“Good.”
She fanned herself with a cardboard file, then picked up the phone and dialled home. Engaged again. And besides, married or not, his wife with child or not, Michael would never want her, not in a million. What would possess him to be interested in a short sighted, unfit, boring, almost thirty, size fourteen data processor? I mean really, she was just so desirable.
“If I may have your attention, please.” It was Rita, the office manager. She always avoided Rita, even though she appeared to be a kind person. How did that explain Nick? “We’re letting you go. I would like volunteers to come in early tomorrow. We have a lot of work to catch up on and the sooner we get started, the better. Overtime will be paid.”
She shook her head, of course she’d come in; the credit card wasn’t going to pay itself. It was three forty. Well, at least she’d be home early for a change.
The door alarms bleeped loudly as she sprinted for the train. She stepped into the filthy carriage just as the doors slid shut with a hiss and a slam. Perhaps her day was improving. There were only a few vacant seats left in the newspaper strewn carriage.
She slumped into an empty seat and gladly closed her eyes. Wave upon wave of tiredness seemed to ooze from her limbs. True happiness would manifest in the stillness of the suburbs. A muddy boot brushed her tights. She looked down; well of course they’d laddered at her ankle. The culprit was a stick-thin, spotty teenager with greasy, brightly coloured hair. He wore smudged sunglasses even though it was overcast and looked like rain. He bobbed his head and murmured off key, his mp3 player blaring at full volume. A young woman sat next to him in a black business suit, she read the early evening paper while eating a thick, glistening burger. It stank like rank sweat.
In her mind’s eye a giant snarling, scaly monster, with acidic drool dripping generously from its blackened, six inch fangs, leapt out of her body and bit the heads off the teenager and the business woman. She turned her head and looked out of the scratched window, trying not to laugh.
She shook her umbrella and stepped into her building. Not one drop of rain while she was on the train, and then, just as stepped from the carriage onto the platform, the heaven’s opened up and emptied a freezing ocean on top of her. Bloody typical. She kicked off her sodden shoes and tiptoed down the corridor, then stood before her front door and hunted for her keys. They were undoubtedly in the deepest, darkest corner of her ancient handbag. Ahh, there they were.
She froze. Now that ‘Ahh’ was in her head, right? Except for the rain battering down outside, there was silence. Her paranoia knew no bounds these days.
“Ahh.”
There was no way on the face of any earth that those groans were in her head. Her breathing bolted off the blocks as adrenaline flooded her body. She knelt quietly and slowly lifted the letterbox lid and listened.
“Ahh.”
There were two people in there and one of them was without question female. She ground her teeth as rage tore through her bones radiating anger to the hairs on her skin. She forced the key into the lock and burst into her flat to see Craig climbing off Miranda.
It wasn’t true. She couldn’t believe it, didn’t believe it, desperately needed to deny to it. But reality forced its way onto her retina. Her boyfriend and her best friend were naked, beneath her sheets, staring at her, horror on their glowing faces. No, no, it simply couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible. It must be a terrible mistake. It had to be. He surely wasn’t … she surely wasn’t … they weren’t. Her stomach clamped tight.
Her body went numb in a lightening wave from the tips of her toes to the crown of her head. Then, there was constriction in her stomach and a tickle in her throat. The remains of lunch would soon be on her carpet, which, she saw, was strewn with clothes.
She dropped her bag, shoes and umbrella, turned and ran.
“Sweetie,” Miranda whispered.
“Tia,” Craig called.
There was no direction, just down one street and then down the next. Her feet were soon bleeding, her tights long destroyed on the concrete. Still, she ran and ran, as the cold, sheeting rain lashed at her face. She didn’t feel it. She was soaked to the skin, her suit likely ruined, she didn’t notice. As energy began to haemorrhage from her, her jog drifted down into a walk, her limbs grew heavy. She stopped, dead still, in the middle of the street.
Pure, blissful peace washed through her, cleansing her, lifting her. She felt herself shrink into a miniature ball of white light, untouched and unstained, as though she was in her mother’s womb. The ball exploded into blazing fire.
The bastard. The bitch. How long had they been mauling each other? How many ‘sleep ins’ had he used to cheat on her? It was unbelievable. She wanted to push Miranda into a corner, to stare her down, to yell at her, slap her around a bit, rip at her clothes and call her a slut, a liar, a filthy betrayer. She wanted Craig on his knees, his head low, begging for pity. She wanted to kick him in the teeth and then grab his crotch and squeeze and squeeze.
The coursing storm dissipated and she laughed out loud. A moment later, she howled with laughter, her cheeks and her sides hurting. It too subsided as quickly as it had arisen and she slumped to the ground, curled up into a tight, foetal ball and sobbed.
They’d been together for almost a year. He had only just moved in with her. She trusted him. And as for Miranda, they went to school together.
She pushed herself onto her hands and knees, to find herself drained, and her mind perfectly still, without even a single thought to ruffle the placid surface of her mind. It was as though she were a blank sheet of paper, like the future was suddenly wide open to endless possibility. Clear light surrounded her; it was warm, loving, all pervasive and endless.
She forced herself to her feet and stood in the hammering rain in the middle of a street. She looked to the side of the road; the footpath was a few feet away. There was no-one around, there was no wind and no sound. She had no idea why she was there. A moment ago she was at work.
The rain stopped. The sun came out. The birds began to sing.
She was wet, almost to the skin. Why hadn’t she put up an umbrella? What was going on in her head, it was pathetic. She hadn’t been at work, she was going to work. It was first thing in the morning, a little after eight. Hadn’t she left home on time?
Frowning, she turned through a slow three hundred and sixty degrees. Her handbag hung from her shoulder, her unopened umbrella was in her left hand, shoes were on her feet and her tights were smooth and unbroken. She looked down and opened her palm. A sparkle of curling, flickering, diamond light danced in her right hand. It tickled.
Looking up, her heart sprinted as she bolted for the footpath. What a ridiculous bloody idiot. As she trudged towards the train station, her feet squelched in cold, scuffed shoes, her teeth chattered, shame filled her burning cheeks, her head was hung low.
She must have lost her marbles to be standing vacantly in the middle of the street for all to see.
~
