Significance by Jo Mazelis Page B

French, not English, but the language of home. His home.
    Her attention was momentarily torn in several directions. The African, his familiar cartoon ringtone, the bartender ignoring her need to pay, the older guy with splashes of plaster, cement, dirt on his clothes. As she scanned the room, her gaze fell on one of the younger labourers as he leaned back in the booth, shuffling the deck of cards, and his eyes bored into her, eating her, travelling boldly up and down her whole being; eyes, mouth, neck, tits, ass, legs then back to eyes again.
    Outside sitting on the window ledge, the back of his red tracksuit flattened out and creased on the glass, lit from within, darkness around and beyond him, the young African.
    â€˜Excuse me!’ she said, leaning over the bar, waggling her twenty euro note, deliberately ignoring the younger guy’s eyes.
    â€˜Ah sorry, sorry. Our friend here is concerned for your safety. You have far to go?’
    â€˜Oh.’ Lucy was embarrassed and at the same time irritated. Their concern was touching, but it also reminded her of her vulnerability. Reminded her that she was prey, was object, not subject. Was little girl lost. ‘I’ll be fine,’ she said, ‘but perhaps I could call a cab?’
    The bartender looked sympathetic, conveyed what she had said to the big guy as if he could not understood her schoolgirl French. They debated some more.
    Lucy suddenly feels self - conscious. Raw. With edges that bleed.
    â€˜Hey, listen, I’ll be fine,’ she says. ‘Can I just settle up?’
    â€˜You want a cab?’
    â€˜No, no, really. My hotel is just a few minutes away.’
    The big old guy shifts himself, moves off the stool he’s been glued to all night, puts a big paw on her arm. The fingers are as rough as sandpaper. She reacts. She overreacts. Badly. Flinches, steps away. She has insulted him.
    â€˜I’ll be fine,’ she says again, puts the twenty on the counter, turns on her heel, takes a step, then hesitates and turns back to the two men. ‘Sorry,’ she whispers in English, then shakes her head. ‘Thank you. I’ll be fine.’ Head up, bag over shoulder, heels clicking over the wooden floor. The sound of her coming, the sound of her going.
    Then she’s out, into the night.

The Running Man
    Joseph felt as if he might burst with happiness. He sat on the ledge of the café wishing there was someone he could share his news with. His mother had rung to tell him that his application for funding had been successful. In just a few months his college education would begin. He had been accepted to read medicine and science at London University. His cousin had promised that he could stay with her in Camden Town. She’d sent him a photo of the house her flat was in. It was white with two fluted columns on either side of a front door which was painted a glossy kingfisher blue colour. The house loomed in his imagination, four storeys high with two large windows on each floor and an azure London sky above. He imagined himself seated by one of the windows, glancing up from a weighty book to watch a passing cloud – himself transformed and transforming – a doctor, a healer, goodness passing from his skilful surgeon’s fingers to end suffering.
    He set off walking slowly and thoughtfully. He felt as if he was airless, floating. He had not gone very far when behind him he heard the sharp echoing sound of footsteps. He turned and saw the English girl he had spoken to earlier, coming out of the bar. She hadn’t been very friendly; she had stared at him blankly when he attempted to strike up a conversation. Which was a pity, as now more than ever he needed to practise his English.
    She was walking rapidly in the opposite direction. He wondered why a young woman like that would be alone. It didn’t make sense to him.
    He was about to turn and resume walking when he saw a white object fall softly from the