UNEXPECTED(Charles E.J. Moulton) Charles E.J. Moulton's articles and stories have appeared here in Storystar, but also in HACKWRITERS, PILL HILL PRESS, VOCAL IMAGES, AQUARIUS ATLANTA, IDEA GEMS, BAROMETERN, TIDNINGEN KULTUREN, COVER OF DARKNESS, SHADOWS EXPRESS, TIDNINGEN KULTUREN, SNM MAGAZINE, SKIRMISH, UFO Digest, Belfast Telegraph, REDHEAD MAGAZINE, HEY KIDS MAGAZINE, APHELION and the CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA.



UNEXPECTED
Short Story by Charles E.J. Moulton


Oh, nice. A free seat. Thank God. I really need to sit right now. Just an old lady there. What is she doing? Packing her bag. Lucky I got the early train. Then I don’t have to run. And I have a couple of minutes to practice my drawing skills before the bus comes. Right. There we are.
I smile at the old lady and she smiles back at me, remarks something about the cold weather. I nod and shrug, knowingly, and she walks off.
I am left to myself.
The cool weather does chill me to the bone. The old lady was right about that. Makes you wish the spring would come soon. No snow, though.
I sit down, glancing at the railway station clock. One o’clock. Good. Another five minutes. Where’s my sketch pad? It was here a minute ago. Oh. There. Pencil? There we go. Eraser. Now, where were we? I drew the paintings on the wall as well as the table. What’s missing in this picture? We have five glasses on the table. Maybe one glass closer to the viewer? That way, the viewer will feel like he is invited to drink with the rest of the people here. Good. I will draw the ... What would fit here? A big beer mug, bigger than the other glasses? The viewer will feel special. Good idea. Three elliptical circles. Connect them. One handle. Color the lower part for the drink inside. That’s it. We have a full beer mug.
I look up again. Three minutes past one. Oh, the bus is late. Usually it swings over to the parking place and comes back. Now, it has to come directly here. Okay. Here it is. Take my stuff. Cool down now. No panic. You will get your stuff together in time to get the bus.
The bus slows down and parks. An older man with a cane gets on before me. I let him go up to the driver and pay for the ticket. Then I dash off past him. That seems like a good seat. I sit down in the bus and as it drives off, time slows down.
A few rows away, right opposite me on the other side of the closing door, there’s a woman. A young woman. I recognize her. But that’s impossible. Old feelings return. Feelings that I thought were dead. That can’t be. Wait. That girl lives two hours away. Why would she be here? Why would she be in a bus in this part of the country?
I look away, feeling a little insecure. Besides, she’s a lawyer with her own practice. I know her. She doesn’t travel much. Why would she be dressed so normally? But do lawyers always dress like lawyers? Maybe not. Maybe she’s here on a visit? My Lord, what if it is her? If it is, she has put on some weight. She looks over at me. Our glances meet. Her eyes meet mine and the gaze doesn’t move. That has to be her, right?
Oh, my God. Those old feelings are coming back. That pain, those kisses, that perfume, the sound of her voice, the look of her dress. I remember our favorite songs, our moonlight kisses.
She is still looking at me. That must be her.
It has to be.
She is waiting for me to speak.
I can see it.
She is looking away.
I didn’t react. Why would I? She didn’t either.
She listens to music in her mp3-player, looking out the window, a sad smile on her lips. God, she still looks beautiful. But that’s not her, is it?
I think, she is also wondering if this is me.
I looked her up in the internet last year. She is married now, like me.
No, that can’t be.
I take out my sketch pad and begin sketching again, making decisions and assessments, adding things, erasing and correcting.
The girl looks my way again. I think she is attempting to raise her hand and greet me. No, she doesn’t. She looks away. There is something there, though. Something strange.
I recognize those dimples. That smile. That hairdo. That skin. I remember making love. I remember feeling so much pain when she broke up. Her refusal to have anything to do with me. Me telling her I loved her. She telling me, she didn’t care.
But it wouldn’t be her. Even if it is, she wouldn’t have anything to do with me. Still wouldn’t. Gosh, I wouldn’t want to either. Not anymore, anyway. I am a very happily married man with a wonderful wife and a great child. We have a fabulous life and a great job. I wouldn’t want to start anything with her.
These are unwelcome ghosts from the past.
Shrub it off.
That’s in the past, man.
Forget it.
I look back and she is still looking at me.
She smiles, I smile.
Our eyes meet.
Still that electricity.
It is still alive.
Is that her?
Hey, excuse me, Miss?
She takes her bag and stands up.
Oh, if I want to speak to her, I gotta do it now.
She looks at me, giving me a Mona Lisa-like smile again. A smile that is not a smile, maybe something else. Is it a smile? A hint of a smile. Some feeling that wants to smile and doesn’t really dare to. She looks away and walks to the door.
Say something. Come on.
Are you ...
Wait.
Same kind of hotpants. The same kind of fashion wear. Other earrings, though.
Out she goes.
Wait.
Please, wait.
I have to talk to you.
No, she is gone.
The bus leaves and I see her walk away.
And I am left to wonder if that was her or not.
She disappears around the corner and my bus leaves the bus stop.
Eventually, I don’t see the girl anymore.
I look back on my sketch pad again, feeling the rugged surface of my thick pencil.
No strength or concentration to draw now.
Well, whoever she was, she looked like my ex-girlfriend.
But who cares if it was?
But I wonder.
I do care.
The busdriver drives fast now, so fast it seems he is exceeding the limit.
I sigh, feeling a sense of insecurity. I wasn’t very happy after that relationship ended, was I? I can’t really understand why I was together with her? Who am I kidding? I was crazy about her. Now? No way. I am curious if that was her.
My hands shake.
I step out of the bus out on the sidewalk next to my stop. Still cold out here, but I seem not to care. All I can think of is this woman that so very much looks like a girl I knew. A bicycle rider whizzes by on his bike. He looks at me, suspiciousy. Probably, he wonders why this guy is standing by the bus stop and looking like someone stole his keys. I am still here, still as a statue, frozen in time and lost in space, wondering who she was. Thinking. Confused. That girl, she looked like Vanessa.
But I couldn’t, could I?
Out of instinct, maybe, I pick up my cellular phone and flip through my contacts. I still have the phone number of her brother. I kept contact with him for a while. Then, a year after the break-up, we had a fight and lost contact. What if I ... No, come on. You couldn’t. What would he say after eight years? What would I say? Hello, I just wanted to ask if your sister is on a trip here in the area. Why would I ask him that? I have no interest in this. I love my wife, I adore our life together. I don’t care.
And yet, I wonder.
He would call me a nutcase.
I can’t call him.
Not after what we called each other.
I walk on in the direction of home.
But I stop again, insecure, my hands shaking, looking at the phone number, pressing the receiver and the stop button several times.
I can’t decide.
I just can’t ...
My heart is beating so fast, that it hurts.
I couldn’t.
And yet.
I want to.
I really want to.
Just to find out.
Okay, here goes nothing.
One ring, two rings. Three rings.
A male voice answers the phone.
I introduce myself, he recognizes my voice.
Tears.
Why is he crying?
Why?
What?
Huh?
That can’t be.
But I just saw her ...
No, that wasn’t her.
My condolances.
Her car? Demolished on the highway? A truck? When? A month ago?
Oh, when was the funeral?
I offer him my time, my attention, my heart, my voice, my friendship, my voice, my everything. He talks and talks and I end up standing there for ten minutes on the street, listening. I am dumbfounded. Vanessa. Dead. A life. She is gone, her soul somewhere else in time.
When we hang up, swearing to keep in touch, I wonder who that woman was I saw.
It couldn’t have been her. She is dead.
And as I walk onwards, my thoughts stray to other dimensions.
That was not Vanessa.
The woman never smiled at me.
I made that up.
That could not have been her.
And yet ...

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