Precisely at noon, quite on the mark, when the clock hanging high above the square would chime with a nasty and resounding gong, simultaneously, a woman with sunglasses a particular shade of maroon approached a man wearing a large wide brimmed hat. It wasn't an ordinary hat, it was green and an awful kind of green at that. The kind you might see from a vintage store selling second-hand hand-me-downs from father to son to his son, so much so that the green, once vibrant and once trendy, had lost all its colour to brown in a disgraceful way. The woman on the other hand was very prim and proper, all lines gracefully cut and folded. Tucked away neatly like paper in a printer tray. Nothing was old - everything looked freshly straight out of a high end Parisian boutique. Her heels went click click click on cobblestone.
She tipped her head once. The man didn't bother to look up at her. He lit up a cigarette. She waited. The man looked old, wrinkles covering every part of his face like a raisin. But yet, his posture and the way he was leaning against the rail lining a marble memorial gave off the impression that he was still fit and healthy. All around, people milled - you could tell they were tourists, toting big bags, slinging cameras and cell phones, meandering with sluggish paces, eyes wide and mouths incessantly speaking - on the other hand, neither the woman nor the man spoke.
Eventually, as if she was tired of waiting, she joined him on the rail, reclining slightly. She too lit up a cigarette, her own. She took a puff. She looked up at the sky. Above, a flock of pigeons stumbled clumsily and with them came two drops. White specks. She saw them so she stepped aside, but they weren't meant to hit her. They quite triumphantly landed on the brim of the man's green hat, as if Pollock had come in with his first flung stroke of paint. Now it's no longer a green hat, but a green and white hat. And a little dark brown. Her nose crinkled and she held back a little laugh.
The man never noticed. Instead, he was preoccupied with something in his pocket. He struggled for a long time, trying to extract it but to no avail. It was stuck in some way. Perhaps it was a little larger than his pocket so the ends of it were trapped in the folds of fabric. Or perhaps he was just inept at the task. It was hard to tell which was the case. It seemed heavy though, and his body began to contort to accommodate the exertion. It was as if the item was getting heavier and heavier and he was getting older and older. His hands began to tremble and sweat.
She stared at him and wondered if she should offer her help. But it would be strange for her to reach into his pocket in assistance, so she bit her lip and took another draft of her cigarette.
Finally, the clock struck the half hour mark - this time without a sound and precisely then, there was a loud bang. It echoed across the square. The pigeons sitting on top of the memorial shot up from their roost and fluttered into the air. Then came the screams.
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Of Forests & Clocks & Dreams (A Literary & Art Collection)
Short Story[Literary, Short Story, Poems, Art, Philosophy] (In Editing) Strange conversations, ringing phones, umbrellas, talking birds, a girl with a top hat, grandfather clocks, transfigured stones, a missing archaeologist, bowls of rice, a man with twelve t...
