Orange shirt, standing out like a sore thumb amidst a see of panic buying friendly neighbours.
A blue dragonfly dances outside of the glass containing rumbling white noise sleep machines.
Coffee? A new mop? A new boyfriend? Sushi? It’s hot and I’m sweating in this noise room. I watch people walking by hand in phone, very cautious not to make eye contact which could be misconstrued as an attempt at human connection.
Is this it? Laundry with plans to later crochet while watching friends on repeat on a Friday night? Again? I walk into the cafe, letting the older couple exit before me, greeting them with a smile. Felt nothing. I talk to an old coworker behind the register about his plans to surprise his wife for their anniversary. I feel connected. I walk back to the warm sound room and sit in the corner, waiting.
The man that was sitting on the bench earlier had left, but I see a unicorn sticker.
It’s a pink and white unicorn with a blue horn. It’s surface reflective in the sun, sparkling when I tilt my head. I used to stick stickers onto things. I used to carve my crushes name into trees and dream about things. I carved ‘you matter’ at the summit bench in my town some years ago, in case someone felt they didn’t. Maybe I should climb that mountain again and read that persons scribbles. They told me it’s all only a dream, and to grow up after getting sober. They were partially right, but now what am I? The orange man? Or just the lonely girl in the laundromat. I stick stickers on things these days at an attempt to feel something, not for my love of stickers.
I walk home with my small hamper of old woman clothes. A car honks at another. It’s pretty quiet for a Friday. The birds are hiding in the trees as the wind takes them. I take the short cut to my street, passing an orange flower. This path is heavily used by the community, feeling tree roots under your feet as you walk by. The sun shines through the canopy and lights up a tree in the distance. The leaves golden with light, the branches swaying and the trunk creaking. A child not older than 12, sitting underneath the tree, bicycle by her side and a stick in her hand. She's carving something into the dirt and singing to herself, not noticing company. She was in her own world and for a minute, so was I.
I walked quietly past the child, scared to startle her. Sliding past an overgrown branch, I drop my basket. I stare at it, as if catching myself up to reality. I crouch and put my now dusty socks back in my basket. An old top with a sparkly sequence pattern and a bold neckline that I wore any chance I could. I stare at it, shimmering in the sunlight. I hear the little girl humming in the distance. I look up and sigh, letting out a childlike laugh.
@NightFury I felt like writing a mini story today. Thanks again for this weeks prompt! I'm really enjoying the feeling of delving into another world through writing.
