The cashier
She was young and pretty. Her hair was healthy and straight jet black and held back in a ponytail with a no-nonsense elastic band.
I smiled a little as I walked up to the counter, being conscious of being tired, being aware that I automatically carried myself like the rest of the St Kilda Road black suit crowd, and she smiled a little at me in return. I paid for my sandwiches and my plastic container of fruit with a lid that didn't shut. Feeling overtly polite, overtly friendly, saying "Thanks very much, have a good weekend."
I could place her accent within three guesses. No. Two. She's not from here, and neither am I. I doubt she could place mine ... I apparently sound like I'm from London eventhough I've never been there.
How does it happen then, that we probably began our lives similarly, that she is behind the counter every day, and that I arrive on the other side of it to pay for my lunch a couple of times a week?
Why should it be her behind the counter and not me; why should it not be me who is dreamy, who longs to be out in the sun and under the shade of the trees, whilst being cautiously nice, who has more of a sense that there is more to come because it certainly isn't all here and now, who is unconsciously and continually hoping for better, happier days?
Why should it not be me who has not yet arrived, not yet able to look back and see the path taken, not yet able to look ahead and see what would come or what could come and take it apart like tracing the joints of a Lego construct, being blind and oblivious and susceptible to impulse and irrationality? Why should it not be me who is innocent and sweet and sensitive but not feel the pain of being so?
I think too much.
The sun was out but it was windy. My favourite trees were shimmering in the sunlight as the breeze gently teased them. Their leaves whispered like a thousand distant sleigh bells, a thousand distant silent thoughts.
[Corresponding dandruff flake][Comment?]
09 November 2001, Friday, 10:39 PM
Alter ego of dandruff
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