Time Of Day:
Middle Of The Afternoon
There's the bustle on the streets. People walking hurriedly by. The buildings are high, towering over him. He's an ant going about his daily business. He's following the line of other ants, carrying his load, his own burden. They're black dots forming a streaming line across the streets. People. Mindless, empty, robotic. At least that's what it feels like. All of the people walking in the city. They're drones to their lives. They do what's necessary. Even the girl singing to the crowd - it's not about passion - she's busking for money. Or the men acting entertaining the crowd -it's not about pleasure - it's all about money. Or the women across the street, scantily dressed, luring men to their beds - it's not about love, only money. Same goes for that guy, without an arm, around the corner. He has a sign propped besides him, something about being unfortunately disformed or disabled. Most likely at the end of the day he'll get up, with money in his pocket, unroll his sleeve and walk away. This time with two arms instead of one and a pocket fulll of money.
Maybe he's beign too cynical. Too jaded. But he's seen a lot. He's seen the tricks and deception. He knows what drives people. He's part of the system. Another money making machine. It's all about survival again. But there's one thing that distinguishes him from the rest of them. The money doesn't really matter. He has all he needs. He doesn't need the money so that he can home and kiss the wife, play with the kids and be satisfied that his family will be okay. He doesn't have a family. And it isn't the money that drives him to work. Nor the promotions or his increasing status as a highly influential, highly successful businessman. It's the work. The need to do something. The need to be occupied by something, anything. He knows he's only ever really had two choices. Become a workaholic or become an alcoholic. Sometimes he thinks he made the wrong choice. It would be so much easier to be immersed in the druken haze of alcohol each day. So drunk that the days roll by endlessly and time is non-existent and all that matters is the next drink and the drink after that.
It is the middle of the afternoon. There's so many people out on the street and he's not used to the crowds. It's unusual for him to be out during the day. Usually he's holed up at work in a cramped office staying there until ungodly hours of the night. Either that or he's in his apartment, curled up on his couch in a dreamless state. The sun is shining brightly, much too brightly. It's blinding him and he loses direction and sight. He's so blinded by the sun he finds himself hallucinating.
*****
The train screeches to a halt. The doors slide open and she finds herself being
pushed out. She should have taken a taxi. She moves forward towards the entrance
but she's not really moving on her own accord. The people behind her, the people
in front of her - they're all a tidal wave that moves her forward against her
will. She has no choice but to go along with their movements. There's so many
people. Each one indifferent the others. She's a small town girl in a big unfriendly
city. All alone. People uncaring. But she's stopped being that small town girl
a long time ago. She's part of the city now. Another one of the uncaring crowd.
She goes about her business not caring about anyone else. The young teenagers
begging at the station stairs no longer touch her. Their hands are out, begging
for money. Wanting their next fix. She gives them an icy look. Their hands retreat.
They're scared to get frozen. She should feel pity for them. She should sympathise
or something. Those teenagers - homeless and drug dependant. They live an agonising
plight that is life. But then...what else if new. She's being selfish, she's
being crazy or unrealistic or cold or whatever but she can't help thinking at
least those teenagers get their fix. At least they get that momentary escape
from reality. A moment of bliss, of happiness, of joy, of being away from this
world and all the horrors it contains. It doesn't matter if it is chemically
induced by illegal substances, she understands their need. It's probably only
because of her father that she never became one of them.
It is the middle of the afternoon. She leaves the station and nows she's on the streets. Carefully she navigates across the maze of the city, following the flow of people. Walking. Walking. Walking. She really should have taken a taxi. The sun is unbearably bright and she cannot see. She squints her eyes but the sun still glares. The sun is so bright she can feel herself melting.
*****
The sun is yellow. Big and bright and full in the sky. The towering buildings
cannot hide the sun. It is the middle of the afternoon and the sun is at its
prime. So full, so bright. They look at one another. One step apart. He thinks
it is another illusion. She feels the iciness of her self beging to slowly melt,
just a little, at his gaze. They're looking at one another, not knowing what
to say. Just standing there on the street staring. They've stopped the flow
of traffic and they can hear people mutter and grumble at them but none of it
truly registers. All they know is the other - standing there. It has been too
long, so long and it doesn't feel real.
He wonders if she will just disappear. He wonders if she is a dream. This is what he has longed for. What drives him. It isn't the money that the girl is singing for, or the money the men are telling jokes for, or the women are whoring themselves for, or the money the guy has 'lost' an arm for. For him it has been about her. Only her.
She stares at him and knows he is her drug. A temporary fix. A brief, fleeting moment of pleasure. That's all the sight of him does for her. But after he leaves, as he will, she'll be left alone. And the depression will sink in. Worse than before. Everything dulled, everything worse because she's experienced that one moment of happiness in seeing him.
They're standing in the street, in the middle of the afternoon and minutes have ticked by. They wonder how long they can stand there in silence. They wonder how long it will be before they part ways again, never to see one another until the next chance meeting. It has been five, six years since they last saw one another. Nothing seems to have changed. And yet everything has. There's silence. The silence is so strong it drowns out all the other noise. The cars zoom by effortlessly. The people walking by are talking but no noise comes out. There's only the silence. Just like before.
She's willing him to speak.
He's willing himself to speak.
She's waiting to forgive.
He's wanting to be forgiven.
"Jo."
It's not the apology she was looking for. It is not the explanation she expected. But it isn't silence. It is a word. Her name. Her name on his lips. It is enough.
One step is taken.
The gap is filled.
They find themselves in each other's embrace and there's tears in their eyes. He finds out she isn't a dream. No illusion. Not a hallucination. She finds out he isn't a drug. He'll last. The pleasure, the happiness - it'll be forever.
It is the middle of the afternoon. The sun is shining brightly. The ice has melted. Joey's no longer the Ice Queen. She's warm again. She can feel and she can love. And she does.
It is the middle of the afternoon. The sun is incredibly bright. There's a goofy smile on Pacey's face and he knows he won't be working late tonight. He's holding her hand. Joey's hand in Pacey's. And this time it isn't a dream. It is reality.
It is the middle of the afternoon and Pacey and Joey walk off. They leave the ants and drones of people. They move against the tide. Pacey and Joey leave the drug addicted kids, the buskers, the whores, the city. They're small town kids again. They're in love. And it is the middle of the afternoon.