Libby bought three chocolate bars, and ate them one after the other. She was crouching in the doorway of the church, a green coat stretched down to cover her bare knees. She was almost oblivious to the taste of the chocolate, the stinging drops of rain hurled by the wind.
Why did he have to be so nice? The question was banging around inside her head like a trapped animal. Why did he? Why nice?
*
His voice had stopped her in her tracks before she caught sight of him. For a moment, she was confused. She didn’t know whether to run – towards him, or away from him?
Libby spotted a couple of friends and with relief she headed towards them. Chattering away at the back of the crowd, she could turn her back to the stage and escape, almost. His voice was dangerous, she knew, but not as dangerous as his eyes. Why here? Why now?
After the speeches Libby pushed her way to the middle of the crowd. She caught a glimpse of him, the red flash of his shirt. He was talking to one of the MPs, a group of reporters crowded around him. Libby ducked behind a tall man in a suit. Her hands were shaking as she pretended to look for something in her bag.
She wanted to break through the crowds, run down the streets, lock herself in her room, the safety of her bed. She wanted to cry. She wanted him to see her.
Libby crept a few metres closer. He was walking away from the reporters. He was going to walk past her. She looked away, pretended to search for her friends in the crowd. When she glanced back, he was looking at her. His head was turned slightly to one side, and he was smiling slightly. Libby froze. His expression made her skin crawl. She smiled back at him, and then looked away. Too late. He was coming over.
“How are you,” he said. Libby shrugged, and tried not to look at him.
“Alright,” she said. She was almost overwhelmed by the urge to fling her arms around his neck, to ask him for forgiveness. He said something else that she didn’t quite catch, so she kept chatting about trivialities, her voice a little too bright.
Suddenly another reporter was at his shoulder, calling him away. He smiled at her again, and then he was gone.
*
Libby finished the last chocolate bar. It was so cold the fat barely melted in her mouth. She shoved the wrappers in her pocket and headed off down the street. The rain was icy against her cheeks but she was still too numb to notice. She couldn’t push his smile out of her mind. The question repeated itself in time with her footsteps.
Why me? Why me?
Posted by Fionnaigh at April 13, 2003 03:43 PM