In Shadows I Await...

In Shadows I Await Your Footsteps

[from the diaries of Stephen Garrity]

It is long after dark when I finally emerge, exhausted, from the claustrophobic confines of my musty office, to plunge into the bleakness of the smog-filled city. It is not my custom to be diligent past conventional work hours, nor willingness to put labour before a decent hot meal, but there are times when a pushy client insists on being entertained, and all of life gets put on hold until he leaves of his own accord, satisfied.

I walk to the bus stop around the corner with today’s newspaper under my arm. It’s too dark to read it properly where I am standing, but there’s always just enough light for me to make out the puzzles on the third page of the Entertainment section. Their crosswords are puerile, but I enjoy the word jumbles. They keep my mind clear on slow nights like these. To avoid anyone reading the paper over my shoulder (why must they impose themselves upon you when they can get their own Daily at the newsstand with a cent to spare, I always wonder), I stand a little way off, in the shadows, and light a cigarette that I will not take more than a couple of drags out of. The harsh taste of nicotine in a mouth that has tasted nothing but caffeine since morning is not altogether pleasant, but it helps to distract one’s attention from the passing of time.

I am pondering the unlikely sequence NGIAUNSE when I hear her heels clacking on the pavement. She has this slightly unusual walk (slide, scrape, clack, clack – the slight scraping sound caused by her tendency to drag her left foot a little) that is hauntingly familiar. She doesn’t have Molly’s wide grey eyes, but there’s that same mane of fiery hair, that raised chin, that wistful expression. She sings at the pub two blocks down, but I haven’t known her for long enough to know if it’s a full-time engagement, or if it’s just a part-time gig until she gets back on her feet. When I saw her last week, she had a subsiding contusion under one eye. I think there’s somebody in her life, and he isn’t treating her well. She deserves better than an abusive roughneck who stumbles through the door at three in the morning in an advanced state of inebriation, and whose affections for her are controlled by the level of substances coursing through his veins.

I could give her better.

She walks right past me, just another nameless stranger in this hostile neighbourhood - hardly one worth noticing, really -, and I watch as she disappears into the night. As the sound of her footsteps recedes, something clicks into place inside my head. Sanguine, that’s what the jumbled word is. Sanguin, sanguineus, sanguis, sanguinary. Hmm. Yes, a little optimism is in order, along with a dash of confidence. Maybe I’ll actually say hello the next time she passes by, and let nature run its course. Maybe she’ll even say hello back, and tell me her name. Maybe we could strike up an amiable conversation and, in the process, discover that we share a love for cultivating tomatoes and going for long walks on moonlit nights.

I wonder if she likes homemade cannelloni?


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Another chapter in the life of Stephen Garrity (aka The Stranger) - and one that probably shows a darker side of him. I sort of like the idea of him having his own miniseries - I think there are interesting stories to tell about the guy's life.

Oh, and by the way? those hands are mine. (Because the original ones were a disaster). I'm not sure how I like him using my hands for crimes of passion, though.


Other Project Garrity Pictures

True Love is
dA High: Garrity (original)
Permanence
The Girl at the Window
Aftermath
Summer Harvest
A Passing Flash of Red

Support Garrity stamp


Stephen Garrity, and all other characters and fictitious locations named in The Diaries of Stephen Garrity © Farlander.