mine delicate wraith

** Unfinished

** Following an older poor women through the streets of Edinburgh, a man tells the tale of what he sees as he does so for 3 hours.



It came from the corner of my eye while I walked to work last Sunday. I had in my right hand the dedication of a four year BA tangibly formed into the weakest coffee my tongue could fondle.

Standing amidst irritated passerby's by my slow going waltz, I tried to comprehend the exchange I’d just had when in shaking my head, turned upward to notice the subject of this story. The shell of a person is easier to notice, much easier to distinguish through the melee of fabricated here-says and second skins than most other forms of broken spirit.

I believe anyhow.

At 2 o'clock to my facing north she crossed the street on a vertical, ignored the rules of engagement and somehow, though I have never seen British cars stop for more than strollers and even then, managed them to cease their cacophony; like a modern day fem-Christ.

It felt, even from where I stood half a block away, that the weight of every sin must have laid into those shoulders, a walking sacrifice for all to see. It was obvious in how she held every single moment she had ever shared in each step while crossing the street.  It was almost beautiful.

--

Propped in her bones she looked 50 some odd years, the face though awful hard spoke female, caucasian with a gypsy frame. Her girth told the possibility of childbirth which lead me to imagine that she had lost it somehow, dis-ownership, abuse or good ‘ol fashioned abortion, though its not the worst thing you know.

She wore layered frocks, not tattered but what you would imagine a 17th c. pauper to wear like armor. Her skirt moving above bare ankles only when they shifted, revealing thick bunched socks encased in heavy boot, lifting each in succession towards something, or nothing simultaneously.

If anyone around had taken notice of her they wouldn't have seen a destination. It reminded me of a friend who commented, “There’s something to say about a man who walks with purpose, that gives him soul.” This after he had finally found work after nearly 9 months of collecting the dole.

This situation differed.

I’ve seen most kinds of despondency try to sell itself. Gypsies, poor bastards and their dogs, charities for children, even charities by children for children with child-only-diseases paint the windows to the soul with ash covered melancholy. But this women made the memory of my own sorrow seem pale and anemic.

I have no idea what had eaten the human being that stood parallel to me, to steal her footing, to gnaw her bones to the spirit most of us agree exists. All I know is that it must have been a once gallant stroll for it to show through the wraith of a woman that now held it, and I say it showed else I shouldn’t have noticed it.

Watching her body motion southward had me become aware that my own walk was far too deliberate for its destination, I slowed, I stared like a crow to a mouse. I released my tension because she had none.

I looked at my watch. It was six minutes to the hour. I looked towards my work then back at her still focused on the same speed, still one foot over the other, still a shade. It felt as if no one else saw her, as if she was mine alone.

Before she arrived at the next corner to once again question the need for traffic lights, I started to follow.

Chapter 2

I threw the coffee into the bin, I no longer felt angry at its stale flavoring but a little sad that the guy who served me couldn’t make a good cup of coffee despite 4 years of academic prowess. It’s like learning to shoot without bullets and when the time comes to do so, you haven’t been prepared for the kickback. You’ve wasted all this time not learning the fundamentals is what I mean.

We sauntered down Castle st. where she turned east towards Waverley. I knew I was staring, locked so as to see more of this accidental story she exuded, any goal I may have had had not yet been established, right now it was just important that I kept track of her, until she moved out of the crowds.

We passed a fellow to our left smoking dejectedly, a cup too small for the change he was silently requesting sat off to the side of his feet. He looked as if wishing the asphalt were a mirror so he could agree with someone else with the self-assessment his mind had conjured. He sat in his mid-twenties, a checkered t and loose jeans, his hair gelled and his posture weak. I would never become friends with this individual I thought to myself.
He felt weak, obsessed with consumption, he looked, for all intensive purposes stupid and I had no pity for his minor qualms even though they could be of varying enormity. For all I cared, he and his girlfriend could find others means by which to  collect 40 quid for the abortion.
But as soon as I thought this, I recoiled. Not because of some deep seeded sense of morality, I didn’t feel bad for my thoughts or him. I thought, what if I’m right and he is panning for abortion monies. I stopped, quickly glancing ahead to make sure my specter was in place, looked at buddy who couldn’t even be bother to look up at a stranger who was feeding his dreams with pence.
Throwing 60p into his tiny fucking cup I muttered, “713 Ashcroft, corner to Minto”, the address to the cities only abortion clinic and kept moving.

I leaped back into the crowds queue forward and spotted my girl, I needn’t walk fast and she stood out well enough but it was her face I wanted to see again. The back of her vale had already told me its story.

It was dark grey covering another mahogany colored hood beneath it.



** unfinished