Creative WritingCuriousWritten

Chloé Laight Creative Writer: The Girl with the Cigarette in Her Hand

I was certain that I was in love with her. I was certain when I watched her fingers haphazardly interlace with one another, when her breath caught in her throat at something particularly beautiful or when I saw the tiniest of wrinkles by her eye deepen as she unknowingly creased into a hint of a smile. Her chestnut hair seemed to reflect the tiniest bit of sunlight even on the dullest of days , illuminating the easy curls that fell from her head and her eyes always big, round and open. The Girl seemed to me neither happy nor sad. Three months of grace, three months of conversation-less intimacy on my behalf was all I had to show for myself and this moment, this day – Ladies and Gentleman – was the day that the sun of my timidity had set and The Girl would no longer be a stranger.

The time of retribution arrived too fast as it usually does: way before I had time to firmly devise a foolproof plan of allurement as she stepped onto the train and resumed an anticipatory seat by the window. It was around six in the evening and the sun was mid-way through its transition from being brilliant to ebbing away into its last dying embers and the left of the carriage was tinted a soft pink. Stained with a kaleidoscope of different hues of blues and pinks, my heart sank even lower when this sentimental atmosphere seemed to envelop the girl even more than usual and not even the consecutive jerks from the tracks or the group of slightly intoxicated singing men at the back of the train could shake her from her self. My hand shook as I tried to steady my knees that unbeknownst to me had begun bouncing up and down, nervous as I tried to summon the courage to cough out the smallest of splutters in order to possess even some tiny part of her attention. Every bark I expelled failed miserably as the sound echoed through the cage but barely even made her blink. I knew the seat next to her was reserved but the restrictions of such were at the back of my mind as I settled on occupying that empty, charming space. At the next stop, for I knew she only had but three stations left until her own departure, I moved as if possessed into the spot next to her. We rolled to a halt but she didn’t turn from the window. I had no idea what to say, perhaps a meagre ‘hello’ would suffice, but I did know that dismissal today was not going to succeed and I swallowed the golf ball that had risen in my throat and braced myself for impact.

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