So, the New Year came and went. The fireworks in London were pretty amazing. I'm not going to make a list of resolutions; I'm just going to have one: get a literary agent. We'll see how that goes.
Instead of commenting on some current political news (AIG suing the US government over the bailout, fiscal cliff, blah blah blah), I'm going to tell you a story. It's a short story, don't worry, though maybe it'll be just long enough to tug at the strings connected to your chest's blood-pumping organ.
This story takes place three days after Christmas, sometime at night, on the wild and rowdy streets of Londontown. Sounds of music erupt from the nearby pubs and bars, and gleeful chatter abounds from the cavalcade of tourists who just exited one of the many nearby theatres. I believe that they were watching a production of The Lion King; regardless, it's another lively night in London, except for one meandering young man who doesn't know where to go exactly.
The meandering young man, a lonesome lad by his trade, had recently had hopes of spending intimate time with a particular woman, only to find her chest as empty as a pirate's hope. They had made plans to see each other on Christmas, though those were dashed; they made plans to see each other on Boxing Day, though circumstances interfered; they made intimations to see each other the next day, though when the meandering young man contacted her, nary a whisper could be heard. And so, on the next day, the third day from Christmas, he wondered why, oh why, had his prospects fallen from the sky's height in such a short time.
He meandered through the streets of London on this third night, thoughts of this temptress swirling around his mind in a vortex of desire and bellicosity. Should he contact her? Should he try, once again, to raise his hopes so that he might eventually reach the top of the hill? Being the naive young man he was, he did, only to have her answer with terse disregard, and not contact him again. What little hope he had tumbled back down that vast hill, taking him with it.
The streets were his cage, and he knew that, but they were his only salvation to an unknown destination. He thought that by wandering, fate might drop a bit of luck in his hands, as he expected nothing to be handed to him. Instead, he came upon a strange sight he did not expect to see: a young girl.
This was not an ordinary young girl in any sense of the word: she resided on the sidewalk behind a hotel next to an air vent because it kept her warm; her belongings were strewn about the sidewalk with care to keep them nearby, and her golden hair was messy with dirt.
The young meanderer was curious: why would there be someone so young laying on the sidewalk like a vagrant? He walked past her once, trying to gauge her exact situation just by what he could see, though he could not see much; on his second walk past, he resolved to talk to her. As he approached, she sat up, and he saw that, much to his surprise, she was pretty.
"Hi, are you okay?" he asked.
"Yes," she said, her accent Eastern European.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Um...Are you waiting for someone?"
"Yes."
"And they're coming to get you?"
"Yes."
"Oh, okay then..." He walked off, unsure of whether or not to wait with her. Why did he care? She was just some random person, just like everyone else in London at that point. He walked off, though he couldn't help but think that he should return, because she appeared to be uncared for, and that was precisely how he felt too.
Half an hour later, he sat down next to her, and she sat up to look at this curious man who kept walking by.
"Right, well, I don't feel comfortable just leaving you here by yourself, so I'm going to wait with you. What's your name?" he asked.
"Daiwa," she said. He introduced himself as well.
"Where are you from?"
"Lithuania." She coughed. The sound of the vent behind them drowned it out a bit. He asked what she was doing in London.
"I come for work and school," she said, her accent remarkably thick. He asks her more, and finds out that she's nineteen, and that she (and a male friend) lost her job, though she has employment in Norway starting in February. Until then, she's homeless, and has been for three weeks.
The meanderer was stupefied. How could someone so young already be homeless? He suggests that she and her friend go to a nearby church and ask if they could sleep there, but she brushes it off, though he has a sneaking suspicion that she doesn't understand exactly what he's saying.
"What about your parents?" he asks. "Can't they help you?"
"My parents don't know I am like this," she says with a cough, and his heart sinks into his stomach.
"Do you want some tea?" he asks. She nods, and he gets up. There's a cafe still open at this hour, thankfully, though she'll need more than tea to fix that cough. He returns and hands it to her, and he sits next to her some more.
"Do you have girlfriend?" she asks, her grey blue eyes curious about this strange meanderer. The meanderer smiles as if she told a joke.
"No, no girlfriend. No friends, even." She looks shocked.
"Why?" she asks. He shrugs.
"I dunno," he replies, and he knows that's the truth. "People just don't invite me to things. I mostly walk around London alone, looking at things, but I'm always alone." She stares at him from over her styrofoam teacup. He glimpses it and looks away with a beleaguered smile: she looks at him as if he's the most impressive person in the world. It's not something he's often seen, and he finds it sad that he sees that look now.
"He is not my boyfriend, my friend," she says, and his heart skips. Was she really implying what he thought she was?
"Do you like to sing?" he asked, trying to engage her a bit more. She shakes her head and smiles with innocence, and when she smiles, so does he.
"How come?" he asked.
"I no good. You sing? With instrument?" He nods.
"Yeah, with a guitar." Her eyes light up.
"Really? You bring it?" He says that he doesn't have his own, that it's an ocean away, but she doesn't much care; she is still amazed by this meanderer.
"You sing something!" she says, and he laughs. He feels good, for once. He sings a familiar tune, and she gasps.
"You sing like angel!" she exclaims, and he giggles. He hardly sang to anyone.
The night wore on with singing and talking. Though she couldn't completely understand him, she was attentive, and talked to him without prattling. She was curious, and made him curious, and soon he found that he didn't want to leave his concrete seat next to the homeless Lithuanian girl.
"You know," he says, "my flatmate is out, so you don't have to sleep on the street. You can sleep in his bed if you want and take a shower at my flat." What is he saying? Inviting a homeless girl to his flat? Her eyes widen at the prospect, though she quickly stops herself from saying yes.
"I have to wait for my friend."
"Do you know where he is?" She shook her head. They continue talking, eventually getting on the topic of panhandling. He sees a few people walking out from the hotel, so he takes his teacup, removes the teabag, and holds it out.
"Spare a bit of change, ma'am?" he says in his best cockney accent. The woman, richly dressed in a black overcoat and some ornate hat, turns to look at the pair of them.
"Actually, yes," and she undoes the buttons on her purse. To the meanderer's surprise, she drops seven pounds in coins in the cup.
"Cheers, ma'am!" he says, and he hands her the change. She is astonished, and looks at him.
"No, is yours, keep it!" she says. He shakes his head.
"I don't need it. You do. Take it." She takes it from him, though she holds out a two pound coin for him. He shakes his head.
"It's all yours." She smiles, her face just a bit brighter than before.
"You come tomorrow night?" He nods and laughs.
The clock chimed at eleven, and he invited her to his flat once again. She was tired of waiting; she picked up her belongings and they headed to his flat. With every few steps she coughed, reminding the meanderer that she not only needed a bed, but a doctor.
They reach his flat, and he makes her some tea as she showers. Worry begins to bubble in his stomach.
There is a homeless girl in your shower, he thought to himself as he poured her cup of tea. He could hear her coughing through the wall.
What if she steals something?
She dresses herself and exits the bathroom, wearing the same white shirt she was
wearing when he met her. He places the cups of tea down on the table and they sit on the couch.
"I sleep there?" she asks, pointing to his bed. He shook his head.
"No, you sleep in there," he said, pointing to his flatmate's bed. He turns on some video for them to watch from Reddit, but he's not really paying attention. Before all of this, before being let down by his own expectations and hopes, a girl on his couch like this would have been a sure night of animalistic urges. Instead, he felt curious; he knew what he would normally do, but this wasn't time for that. This was different, regardless of whether or not she was homeless and sick. This was beyond his typical one-night stand; instead, she was a friend.
Eventually, she says she is tired, and she goes to bed, coughing every so often. He goes to bed, a million different scenarios flashing across his eyes: what if she steals his belongings? What if she isn't there when he wakes up? What if she tries to hook up with him while he's asleep?
The sound of coughing stops; she's fallen asleep. He eventually does the same, though he is too worried to dream.
Upon waking, he finds that everything he owns is where it should be, and she is still there. He gets up and so does she, and he makes her breakfast. They talk a bit, and he tries teaching her a bit more English, but after the food is done, she gets ready to leave.
"Here," he says, holding out a jacket he bought at a thrift store some months back. Her eyes widen and she smiles at him.
"For me? Why?"
"I don't need it. It's warmer than the one you have, so, it's yours." She takes it and puts it on, staring at the reflection of a girl who looks impressive for someone who is homeless. He also gives her an orange, hoping that it might do her health some good. They walk out of his flat, and on the way back to the spot he met her the night prior, he can't stop himself from saying it.
"You look really nice," he says, and she smiles. He smiles in return.
"Thank you."
They reach the spot, and she turns to look at him. His heart utters a tremulous plea: "What do you do? What do I do? What the hell is going on?" He thinks that he should hug her, but he doesn't know if he should; thankfully, she extends her hand, and he shakes it. They both turn and walk away.
That night, another noisy, boisterous, busy one, he walks out of his flat, an orange in his pocket, and goes to the spot. To his sadness, she isn't there; there are the remnants of an orange peel on the ground, and he gets excited that maybe she'll return. He places the fresh orange on the ground, hoping that she'll see it, and he walks away, never to see her again, regardless of how badly he wanted to once more talk to his sole friend in the city.
