...Restraining his thoughts, the young man looked up. The city street was cool, channeling softly the hazy red-orange glow of a rising sun. Everything was fresh, as fresh and lifelike as the city would allow, and the man was pleasantly surprised (for he had not before traveled the sidewalk at this early hour) by the sharp impression of cleanliness brought on by swept walks and potted plants, colorful awnings over empty entryways, the coolness of the dew. The finest of all hours, he mused. Safe, clean, and almost – almost pretty.
And quiet. In an hour Broad Street would be full of cars, the city would hum, the haze would be scattered, and contemplation could cease. Only the task ahead.
Of course, the task ahead had never been so…
He broke off again, interrupted by the noise of a lone vehicle speeding loudly up from behind. He instinctively took a step to his right, away from the curb.
How long till rush hour…
And this is what happened: up ahead, maybe thirty feet, a young woman stepped – skipped, really – from an alleyway. It was bizarre: not the clothes, not the movements, not even the wild spontaneity (morning after in the city, after all…), but in the whole of the scene he clearly perceived some indefinable strangeness.
Only one word worked: twirling. Ten to seven in the morning and this girl was twirling, performing some ridiculous drunken happy dance directly in his path. Well. He slowed his step and cast his eyes down to her feet, refusing to offer any gaze, any invitation. No invitations, not to early morning twirlers.
She was wearing heels, but she danced lightly on her toes. For a few steps, at least. It could not have been more than just few steps, a few seconds of silly, meaningless lighthearted movement. Only the aura of incredible excitement in her motions (again, the bizarreness of it all…) somehow created a sensation of greater significance. That was all, so he thought later.
Regardless, the dance came quickly to an end. With a leap and one final twirl she landed delicately on her toes before planting her high heels emphatically into the pavement. One heel did not stop.
It was an old story, the sidewalks of the city. The papers would not let it rest: dangerous crevasses, hazardous pedestrian potholes…one must be careful when stomping around, especially in the uneven drive of an alleyway. What could she have been thinking, he thought amusedly (knowing full well that a person in such a condition as hers would not bother with foot placement, nor be bothered by any consequences thereof). Well, it would be safe for him to look up – her attention was surely distracted now by the task of balancing.
Two seconds.
His eyes rose to her middle as her middle slid to his left. He stared into her clothing, but did not see it. He took a breath. Time slowed. Why did time slow? he thought, clearly and calmly, musing as if his mind were an island, floating somewhere away from everything – which it was, suddenly, as his senses had become saturated, had filled up and fallen away from his conscious. He could feel the cool misty haze brushing against his skin, the hair on his head twitching as particles of the dead-still morning air flowed softly through it. The air slid through his parted lips and against the underside of his tongue, which was lightly pressed against the back of his front teeth. He could feel the groove between them, could taste the single grain of sugar stuck there by the pastry he had just finished. Everything was distinct, every sensation was perfectly packaged in the body; distilled and perceived from afar by the mind. A thunderous cloud of sound and smell invaded his nostrils and ears. It was rich and powerful, like mighty rushing waters, engine oil, asphalt, the roar of the speedway, the odor of the city, hints of smoke, burning…and into the thick brew a faraway siren cut sharply.
One and three-fourths seconds.
How strange, he thought. What could possibly be happening? he thought, with detached curiosity. His mind was quiet, empty, clear and silent, almost ringing.
His eyes had become fixed on her hands, hands that swung wildly around as she flailed to maintain balance. Suddenly they became clear. He could see the soft outline of veins on the back of her right hand, the hard outline of tensed tendons. Her fingers were frozen, extended. He saw them vividly and distinctly, as though she stood five feet away, offering her hand in greeting.
One and one-half seconds.
His eyes rose to her neck, which was lined with delicate sinew as she pulled her jaw tight. Sparkles of sweat or dew shone at the edges of her neck as beams of sunlight reflected around its profile. She was so close. His mind was so clear, so apart. Her neck was like a picture, which he could gaze upon for hours. He felt his eyes as they moved in their sockets. How strange, he thought, again, for there was so much time to think. He listened hard to the silence, the hollow ringing. It was immensely quiet. His sight was not affected by depth – everything was in focus. He watched as the sharp outline of a streetlight post slid across his field of vision, disappearing behind her neck and reappearing on the other side.
She was still stumbling, still trying to regain balance. Stop trying, he thought, allowing concern into his mind for the first time. Take the fall. You don’t want to fall out in the dirty street; I can help if you get a little banged up (he had taken a first-aid class once); who are you? He formed the words completely, deliberately. His mind was so clear.
One second.
His eyes met her face. He perused it, explored it. Twenty-three? Twenty-four? She had those small lines of concern, of worldly experience. She surely must have been a bit younger than him!…but she looked tired, worn-out. Is this the same girl who was just doing the dance? he thought. How strange, how…
But suddenly he could think no more. The ringing in his mind grew fiercely loud and the barriers between the mind and senses crumbled, flooding his whole being with feeling. His skin burned, his tongue was dry, a storm exploded in his head. He could not think. A thunderous grayness enveloped his mind. The words which had flowed so airily through his mind were buried in the flood. He could not hear, he could not feel, he could not smell.
He could still see. He could do nothing but see, and watch; his whole being numbed with a buzzing paralysis. Everything now unfolded like a movie. His vision narrowed, flattened, focused only on her face, her face which seemed inches from his now, turned so that he could see both eyes.
One-half second.
Her eyes filled his vision. Her eyes did not meet his. He watched as they widened, staring at something far beyond him. The pupils dilated into large, black holes. He could see the blood vessels around them, shooting out into the whites, pulsating. He could do nothing but watch.
One-quarter second.
Her eyes grew dull, the lids relaxing together in surrender. Rolling lazily to the side, they met his. And stopped. He was awash in sensation. This was it. Everything froze. They held the stare.
Zero seconds.
The square-paneled mirror cut into his field of vision from the left, gradually blocking her face from view. One eye. No eyes. The stare interrupted, his focus released. He now saw everything. A body. A mirror where a head should be. A truck attached to the mirror. Sirens. The buzz was unbearable.
Pop.
It was one noise, a single moment of contact. No complexity. Shattered bone, smashed tissue, horrifying, gruesome, tragic – everything left to imagination. Just a simple pop. A faint pink puff appeared to the right side of the mirror. Her hands jerked. Her feet lifted from the ground. She flipped like a tossed doll, arms flung overhead. The truck had passed. As she spun, he caught a glimpse of what had been her face. There was no more face. The nose was gone, eyes were buried behind flaps of raw red-and-white tissue. One more flip. This time her extended arms brushed the pavement and the continued rotation of her strung-out body brought her legs smashing to the ground. She crumpled, falling forward onto her knees, chest, and finally her face. What had been a face. The hands hit the ground last. The fingers on the right one twitched.
The roar in his head subsided, his mind was released and his senses returned to something near normal. The stale air in his lungs tumbled out and he began to breathe again. He could think again. I feel nothing, he thought, testing his emotions. Something was bound to grab him. He wept openly at funerals, he liked to feel as though he had a soft spot for tragedy. But there was nothing. He should have been horrified, but there was no horror. Only numbness...