It is the most captivating thing on this entire street.
It stands out, makes you smile and certainly encourages a person to wonder: Why on earth would someone paint a door that particular hue of pink? It’s blinding. It’s welcoming. Happy. Bright. Colorful. It always forces the smile on my face to linger a little longer than it should. It is beautiful.
“MIIIIILA!” Daan’s heavy hand rests on my shoulder and almost yanks me out of daydream.
When I’m spun around, I find myself staring at the bearded chin of a gruff old man. My eyes snap up to his and quickly my thoughts are pulled back down to this busy street where I am standing instead of where they were only a moment ago…off in some godforsaken dream.
Daan’s hand rises and with a gesture, he offers me back my basket of oranges.
I peer down and then up and then back down again.
Daan only grunts and urges me to take the basket from him.
The seagulls swoop around us. I am bumped and nudged in all different sorts of directions while I wait for Daan to explain, but he does not, only encourages me to take the basket from his hands.
“I—I—I don’t understand, Daan.” My brows collide, hard and I am unable to avoid the burning sun which forces me to squint when I crane my neck to face this man who is much much taller than me. “Why are you forcing me to take it all back?”
With another grunt, he twists to face his produce stand and the mound of oranges already there. “I don’t need any more of this, Mila. You’re late today. So, someone else, a very upbeat young man who entertained me quite nicely by juggling some of those oranges for a while too, just happened to beat you to the sale this morning.”
I blink a few times almost lost for words. “Oh.”
His big head slants to the side. “I’m very sorry, Mila.”
Nodding, I reluctantly take the basket from Daan, fingers clutching the wicker and squeezing.
I keep my head low for a while, thinking.
And then I find the courage to face Daan and find that he isn’t smiling.
Because there is nothing to smile about…
My shoulders feel heavy. My spirit feels crushed. My insides twist and knot painfully.
Why do I feel as if I am suddenly standing here with no skin on?
I inhale deeply, harshly, purposefully, and the breath somehow scorches my lungs when I accept that I am no longer that brave…perhaps stupid…woman who slipped out of the only home I’ve ever known all those months ago thinking I would find a better life for myself out here on my own.
I haven’t.
And now, I’m scared…
In fact, I am terrified.
Although I am uncertain if it is mostly because I won’t survive or if it is that I will have to crawl back to the only home I’ve ever known and be forced to try once again to become the daughter I know I can never be.
It has been months since I have been on my own. I have a roof over my head by way of a sort of overcrowded boarding house that’s outfitted with basic human comforts that I’ve been calling my new home. I’ve made assorted friends and so forth, one who even particularly stands out from all the rest only because I find her quite odd and happy even though she’s doesn’t own much more than the scarf on her head. But I have not found steady work and that has proven to be the most daunting task of all. Admittedly, maybe even foolishly, something deep inside just might’ve told me I would have found all these things by now. I am not entirely certain of what I was thinking then. Or, if I even was thinking at all! Perhaps foolish bravado then trumped much-needed common sense…
The distinct sound of someone clearing their throat fills my ears but still, I don’t look up.
Shoulders feel heavy, so heavy.
“Mila.” Daan coughs.
I can smell his pity…
And it stinks.
So, I don’t want it.
“Mila, I am very sorry, but you know I cannot wait for you. It’s whomever gets here first.”
I lift my head, expression gentle. “It’s fine, Daan.” I smile. “I understand.” Accepting the weight of the basket of oranges, I hold it more comfortably and take a few steps away from Daan.
“Mila, please, you must understand.” Daan’s voice drifts on the salty wind.
I take slow measured steps away from where Daan stands. “Thank you for all of your help, Daan!” Lifting a hand, I wave a few more times and then stop when I’m far enough away from the chaos of where all the buyers and sellers meet.
Legs heavy, I manage to still send one foot in front of the other until I’m making my way along the same street, although leaving a lot less hopeful than I was when I had arrived. The birds chirp and sing. The waves roll into the harbor gently. The sun warms my shoulders. It’s a picture-perfect day.
I crane my neck up to the blue, blue sky and let out breath so big that I’m left dizzy when it leaves me. Then, I take a few more steps, bootsteps hard as they make their way along the cobblestone street beneath my feet. I make it to the end of the street, where horses and carriages along with their drivers wait. A whinny from one of them rides on the wind and then the scent of manure slips into my nostrils.
Reminds me I’m still alive…
It all jump starts my heart once more.
Laughing a little, I march ahead intent to believe that tomorrow will be a better day for both me and my heavy wicker basket of oranges which I will just have to go and sell someplace else.
Then, I stop.
Biting my lip, I am determined to make certain of what I think I believe.
Slowly my chin finds its way over my right shoulder and then I find myself turning, turning, turning until I have that big white house with the pink door in view. My gaze drifts upward toward the clouds and there she is…the woman in the window…sitting statue-still and still sipping from the cup which she holds between her fingers while she watches me.
Something comforting wraps around me that feels much like a hug.
It helps me straighten my spine just a little more.
And I think about touching her.
No, don’t do that…
With a breath, I stare at my wicker basket of oranges for a little while and think about my next plan. It’s still early in the morning. I should still have time. There are plenty of produce stands along this street. I just need to try another one, find another “Daan,” get these oranges sold! simply to tell myself that I accomplished something meaningful today.
Maybe some kind man or woman will buy my oranges today?
Smile still lingering, I make my way down the cobblestone street knowing I cannot forget the woman in the big window and the house with the pink door that she seems trapped behind.
Tess
THE SUN HAS FINALLY risen fully and shines down over the waves which roll into the harbor. I’m still sitting to the window, peering out through the glass at the busy street below. I’ve probably been sitting here for an hour or so.
My thoughts run rampant. My fingers twitch to work. My tea is cold too.
But still I don’t move from this sitting on this stool.
A breath leaves me when I glance down and examine the contents of the teacup. The bag has split open and now tea fibers float around in the liquid as if there lost and no longer have a home.
My belly grumbles just like my soul does. I should eat something…But mere food will serve no purpose in sufficing the sort of hunger I currently own.