footsteps echo on the cobblestones, like this is my street and I really live here.
Then I walk under an archway and just as suddenly as I found the quiet haven of my little street, I’m in a loud burst of noise, spicy smells, drum beats, and loud voices. All around are vendors selling fruit and vegetables on those little carts with handwritten signs stating the price. Other stalls have gauzy Indian shirts, beaded skirts, Irish lace, and jumbled masses of old watches. I pick through a couple, still looking around me. I notice a street name tacked to the white-washed building and it registers as a place Arabella mentioned to me; it’s the part of town she and her family used to have a flat when she was younger.
“Want one?” The watch stall guy asks. He’s got a thick accent — Scottish maybe — and tries to get me to buy a pocketwatch. “This would suit you.”
“It’s lovely,” I say. “But I don’t really need it.”
“Oh, come now,” he jibes, “There’s got to be something you need here.”
I smile at him and shake my head. Just behind him I notice a well-lighted window on the garden level — which is the London way of saying basement. I crouch down to peer into the space and see that it’s a gallery with enormous — wall-sized — photos. Slowly, so as not to seem rude — I never know how to tactfully end the bartering/salesman thing — I back onto the curb and look for the stairs down.
“That way,” the watch man says and points behind a black gate.
I take the steps one by one, just enjoying my newfound freedom in this city. I so needed to break away from the noise of my dorm life and the routine of trekking from one place to the next for my classes.
I push the door but nothing happens. I pull the door and nothing happens. I’m about to leave when there’s a buzzing sound that unlocks the door and I go in. The room is almost bare, but warm — both in temperature and in tone. The floors are wood painted a rich caramel color, the few chairs are a mix and match of old bar stools and ladderbacks. Nothing takes away from the impact of the walls — each one has just a single image on it. Rather than a crying child or a black and white pouty image of a girl being ogled, these are very simple. The first one has a cup on a table in the center of an open room — I stare at it, transported, because the photo itself is so big, it feels like I am part of it, that I could reach out and touch it.
“See anything you like?” asks a voice — the gallery owner, probably.
Without taking my eyes off the wall, I say, “This is incredible. It’s like I’m in it.”
“That’s the exact point I’m trying to make.”
I look away from the image and over to the other side of the room to see Asher Piece with his hands in his pockets, hair falling onto his forehead, caught in a half-smile, staring directly at me.
He waits for me to talk, but even with my mouth open — which I realize it is and quickly shut it — he volunteers. “I wondered when you’d find this place.”
My shoes sound loud in the empty space as I walk over to another picture. This time, there cup is even closer, as though the viewer has stepped into the photograph and is reaching out to touch something. It’s a totally beautiful image but also really jarring.
“These are powerful,” I say, but what I want to add is that they are messing with my sense of reality. That he does. That just being in proximity to him makes me feel off-kilter.
“Thanks,” he says. “Want to sit down?”
“I have to go soon, I think,” I say and wish I’d bought that pocketwatch so I could use it as a prop.
“You do?” he walks closer to me.
“Yeah,” I look at the floors, suddenly transfixed by the grains in the wood so I don’t have to look at Asher’s face.
“Is this because I behaved like such an intolerable martyr and stormed out at Christmas? Or because you have that boyfriend…Jacob?”
Now I click into action and remember
Then I walk under an archway and just as suddenly as I found the quiet haven of my little street, I’m in a loud burst of noise, spicy smells, drum beats, and loud voices. All around are vendors selling fruit and vegetables on those little carts with handwritten signs stating the price. Other stalls have gauzy Indian shirts, beaded skirts, Irish lace, and jumbled masses of old watches. I pick through a couple, still looking around me. I notice a street name tacked to the white-washed building and it registers as a place Arabella mentioned to me; it’s the part of town she and her family used to have a flat when she was younger.
“Want one?” The watch stall guy asks. He’s got a thick accent — Scottish maybe — and tries to get me to buy a pocketwatch. “This would suit you.”
“It’s lovely,” I say. “But I don’t really need it.”
“Oh, come now,” he jibes, “There’s got to be something you need here.”
I smile at him and shake my head. Just behind him I notice a well-lighted window on the garden level — which is the London way of saying basement. I crouch down to peer into the space and see that it’s a gallery with enormous — wall-sized — photos. Slowly, so as not to seem rude — I never know how to tactfully end the bartering/salesman thing — I back onto the curb and look for the stairs down.
“That way,” the watch man says and points behind a black gate.
I take the steps one by one, just enjoying my newfound freedom in this city. I so needed to break away from the noise of my dorm life and the routine of trekking from one place to the next for my classes.
I push the door but nothing happens. I pull the door and nothing happens. I’m about to leave when there’s a buzzing sound that unlocks the door and I go in. The room is almost bare, but warm — both in temperature and in tone. The floors are wood painted a rich caramel color, the few chairs are a mix and match of old bar stools and ladderbacks. Nothing takes away from the impact of the walls — each one has just a single image on it. Rather than a crying child or a black and white pouty image of a girl being ogled, these are very simple. The first one has a cup on a table in the center of an open room — I stare at it, transported, because the photo itself is so big, it feels like I am part of it, that I could reach out and touch it.
“See anything you like?” asks a voice — the gallery owner, probably.
Without taking my eyes off the wall, I say, “This is incredible. It’s like I’m in it.”
“That’s the exact point I’m trying to make.”
I look away from the image and over to the other side of the room to see Asher Piece with his hands in his pockets, hair falling onto his forehead, caught in a half-smile, staring directly at me.
He waits for me to talk, but even with my mouth open — which I realize it is and quickly shut it — he volunteers. “I wondered when you’d find this place.”
My shoes sound loud in the empty space as I walk over to another picture. This time, there cup is even closer, as though the viewer has stepped into the photograph and is reaching out to touch something. It’s a totally beautiful image but also really jarring.
“These are powerful,” I say, but what I want to add is that they are messing with my sense of reality. That he does. That just being in proximity to him makes me feel off-kilter.
“Thanks,” he says. “Want to sit down?”
“I have to go soon, I think,” I say and wish I’d bought that pocketwatch so I could use it as a prop.
“You do?” he walks closer to me.
“Yeah,” I look at the floors, suddenly transfixed by the grains in the wood so I don’t have to look at Asher’s face.
“Is this because I behaved like such an intolerable martyr and stormed out at Christmas? Or because you have that boyfriend…Jacob?”
Now I click into action and remember
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