I always see people on the street and wonder what their stories are. Are they happy? Are they depressed? Rich? Poor? Call me judgmental if you will but I can’t help it. It’s just so hard to believe that every walking soul out there has the weight of the complexities of life in their world, and when I sit and ponder it for too long, I realize just how big this world truly is.
Often times, many of these people-watching sessions are spend daydreaming. From my chair at the coffee shop, many good looking men pass by. There is a post office across the street, in which I occasionally see a tall man with broad shoulders enter. He’s always dressed in jeans and wears a black coat, and is usually carrying a little brown box with him. What’s in that box I wonder? Who is he sending it too?
He drives an old blue mustang, in which is never clean. It is always splattered with mud and rain spots. Maybe his lifestyle is so hectic, that he never has time to wash it. Perhaps he goes to college, and spends many of his days and nights studying like crazy, so he can get a PhD. Or maybe he already has plenty of money; however it seems highly unlikely due to his choice of vehicle.
Once a few weeks ago, this post office man entered the coffee shop in which I frequently go to for my caramel macchiato and valuable people watching time. Although I did not inspect his features up close, I could tell that he was quite handsome, with dark eyes, soft lips, and luscious chocolate hair. He looked like a man with many secrets, aged no more than 21 or 22. The sway in his step added a mysterious hue to his ways, and I watched as he approached the counter. He placed his order, giving the girl behind the counter a tiny smile to lighten the mood and pulled out his black leather wallet. It looked a bit old and tattered from my point of view, perhaps from shoving it in and out of his tight back jean pocket so many times.
There’s something about that man, who often sends little brown boxes at the post office. He reminds me of Christopher. Christopher and I go to the post office sometimes to mail birthday presents to my many cousins that live in Arizona or to mail my grandma things occasionally. The inside of the building smells like crisp cardboard, and Christopher always stands directly next to me as I inform the lady of my package’s destination. He always subtly swings his arms, accidentally brushing against my sides as he swings back and forth. I’m not sure if he notices though.
There is a guy at the university I attend that I like to observe as well. He is in my comparative politics class, and he usually sits in the front row far on the right. His backpack is dark green, and it is terribly worn out, and his face is usually really pale. He is a quiet person, who likes to keep his thoughts to himself, but when necessary he speaks up. I like his voice. It’s low and smooth, and I like the way he annunciates just the right letters in my name to perfection. Annabelle, Annabelle. Sometimes after I hear him talk, his voice will be stuck in my head for days. Like a low comforting murmur that I can’t for the life of me shake away. I’ve grown accustom to hearing the soft stir of his voice in my mind, late at night when everything is silent. I suppose that’s okay, considering my fondness for it. His voice reminds me of Christopher’s. Sometimes at night, as I lie with him in our bed, he whispers in my ear. Regardless of the content of his words, his whispers make me shutter, sending a warm yet cold, tingling sensation straight down my spine and into my belly. It makes me squirm with delight. Or often times I call Christopher, when I am in my car and I become scared of my surroundings. His voice gives me the courage to go on. Comfort, with a speck of amusement, as if my fear somehow entertains him.
The man at the university sits in the student center sometimes, studying or working on homework. He always sits at a small table near the window, and from my point of view I can usually see him clearly. His eyes are typically completely fixated on the screen of his black laptop, his fingers moving in rhythm to the sound of footsteps scurrying across the building. Sometimes he alternates between reading the laptop screen, and taking notes in his journal. I wonder what his major is. What his goals for life are, his intentions. He never really interacts with anyone on his own terms, and from my own observations I have also noticed that he will intentially ignore others who try to speak to him. Why is this? Perhaps he is stuck up. Perhaps I am stereotyping him as a quiet fellow due to his characteristics, when really he is just conceited.
Sometimes when I sit near him, he will glare at me out of the corner of his eyes. I don’t like it. It makes me feel uncomfortable, insecure, and unsafe all at the same time. When his eyes put a spotlight on me, my whole body burns on fire and becomes prickly. I have many times told Christopher of the incidents, who brushes me of with the same laughter that he gives my fear of surroundings. He believes I am too quick to analyze.
Thinking and analyzing people and events is what helps get me through everyday struggles however. Like all of these stressful worksheets that I must sit here and finish before the end of the night because they are due in school tomorrow - taking a break and remembering all these things will help clear my mind, and get my work done easier. Besides, as I have tried to explain to Christopher on many occasions, remaining calm and thoughtful in tough situations in better than becoming angry.
Let’s use my co-worker Annalisa for example. I don’t know her that well, as I am not great with communicating and socializing with other people beyond Christopher that is, but I am an excellent listener and observer. Annalisa is quite the gossip, which has allowed me to get an earful of just exactly what goes on in her life. Just last week she had been finding miscellaneous items in her house, of which she did not know their origin. Lavender and Vanilla scented candles, brand new blue bed sheets (her boyfriend’s favorite color, and they were already on the bed, along with new matching decorative throw pillows, she had never before seen). What made her particularly mad though was when she found women’s clothes upstairs in their bedroom, on her side of the room. They were still in their bags though; whoever bought them just left them there. Ladies skirts, dresses, tops, even shoes. Anyways, her boyfriend got home later that day, and she didn’t even ask him about the new décor and clothing that filled their bedroom. She began to physically attack him, and accuse him of cheating (he was probably cheating on her with that shy, quiet girl he hangs out with; the one who never talks, just watches and is socially awkward.)
But enough of thinking about other people and their issues right now. I’m so tired of everything. Considering other people’s needs and all of that. I have enough of my own issues to worry about, thank you very much; like this ridiculous homework I must turn in tomorrow, the groceries I must pick up before all of my friends get here tomorrow night for my dinner party, and I promised Christopher that I would wash his car for him. I really with spring was over already, enough with the rain causing so much mud in our yard. For some reason when he pulls into the driveway, the rain and mud puddles splash up and turn his car into a filthy mess. I can’t stand it. Presentation is everything.
Speaking of Christopher, I hear the front door swing open loud and see him and his brother enter the house. I decide to take a break from my current homework assignment, and slam my comparative politics book shut. Christopher and I have that class together anyways, and he is smarter than me, so perhaps he will help me study later. I walk into the kitchen to greet them, and then lean against the counter as I listen to their current meaningless chatter. Last night’s pro baseball game, the latest news stories, upcoming parties ect.
I see a tiny ant crawling across the countertop, and I imdeiently grab a paper towel and kill it. I don’t understand why we have so many bugs in our house, it drives me crazy, I keep it as clean as possible and these stupid creatures continue to raid my household.
“What are you doing?” Christopher’s brother asks me.
“Killing the ants,” I respond. “They are everywhere.”
He then goes back to his chatter with his Christopher, who doesn’t appear to be listing anyways, he’s rummaging around in the kitchen, grabbing a can of soda to drink. He then comes over and throws his dark green backpack on the counter, pulling his black laptop and notebook out whilst doing so.
I shout out at him. “You’re throwing your crap into the ants Christopher! Why do you always do this to me? It’s like you intentially try to upset me!”
He says nothing, but shrugs, brushing me off as usual. He boots up his computer and begins to read something off the screen. I, in my now anger filled state, remove his backpack off of the counter, and announce for the millionth time that he really needs to buy a new one. His is falling apart and there are newfound rips and shreds on the shoulder straps.
He reminds me that I was the one who created the new damage, when I attacked him last week in our bedroom.
His brother, who is still rambling, seems oblivious to the fact that Christopher appears to be disengaged from their brief encounter a moment ago. He starts walking in circles around our kitchen, and I get upset that he is leaving muddy foot prints on my floor. I walk over to him and try to hit him, shouting and calling him names.
Then I see the little brown box sitting on the table right by the front door. “Christopher, you were supposed to drop that off at the post office this morning remember?”
He gets up and walks over to me, restraining my body just with his arms and tightly grasping my left wrist with his cold fingers. “Did you take your medicine this morning?” he asks, his eyes glazing down on me.
“Stop staring at me like that!” I shout. “That’s exactly how you look at me in class and I hate it! You know that!”
“Annabelle!” He squeezes my wrist tighter, “just shut up and talk to me, did you take your medicine today?”
I wrestle out of his hold and try to hit him, but he manages to avoid my strikes each time, and turns around the corner. He starts to repack his stuff into his backpack again, “You know what,” his voice is slightly raised, “I don’t know why I’m still trying to make this work! I thought I loved you, but now I’m realizing that maybe the doctors have been right all along. Mental disorders and all that crap, I didn’t believe it but I really can’t deal with this right now Annabelle.” He slips on his black coat.
“Where are you going?” my voice is definitely raised.
“Out.” He replies calmly.
I follow him out the door and onto the porch. “You better not be going to see that shy, awkward girl again!”
He looks back at me and sighs, “Go inside Annabelle.”
I slam the door behind me as I get back into my kitchen. The house is empty now, with Christopher gone and his brother has apparently left as well. I grab my homework sheets and go upstairs to our bedroom. The scents of vanilla and lavender fill the room when I enter. I shove some papers off of my desk to make room, and I place my work down on the table.
I start with the easiest part. Name: Annalisa.