friday evenings in a deserted city

It’s Friday evening. And I’m in a city where weekend plans are a big deal.

I walk down the street from my apartment building with an empty bag on my back that will soon be filled with groceries.

It’s a bit chilly out, the air crisp and fresh. The streets are busy. The footpath, lined with restaurants and bars, is an obstacle course of people — people dressed up and not, in couples and groups, all seemingly on a night out. I dodge them, thankfully not having to do the awkward shuffle of passing through.

I reach the grocery store, pick up a basket and get ready to tackle the moving hurdles in the narrow aisles that are prone to stopping abruptly and just lingering. And soon, I’m checking out.

I walk out the store and instantly, everything seems different.

The people on the streets are now few and far between. The restaurants around look sparse — no, empty. I take my phone out of my pocket and look at the homescreen — still Friday, less than half an hour later.

It looks like it rained while I was shopping, the roads are slick. I wait alone for the walk sign to turn green, looking around at the quiet. The yellow of the McDonald’s across the street burns bright on the concrete paths.

I start my way back to my apartment, looking through all the glass windows and doors of the establishments — some have their lights on, the staff still there, others are dark and shuttered.

It’s Friday evening and the deserted streets are unnerving.

I soon find notices stuck to the doors —

— to protect our customers

— to protect our employees

— stay healthy

— see you again

— serve you again

— soon!

— temporarily closed

— reopen april 2020

— takeaway only

— open for takeaway!

— thank you for your understanding

The walk back is uphill, the bag of groceries weighing heavy on my shoulders.

A bouncer always stands outside that bar which is now closed off with a heavy black door. That disco place, the one that puts out a short red carpet for the line of patrons waiting to get in, the one with a light that projects dancing colourful dots just outside its door, is dark. That lane dedicated to just restaurants, the tables, patrons and food spilling outside all lively, is deserted.

I reach my building and climb up the stairs tired.

I open the door to my apartment, wash my hands right away.

Pull out my groceries one by one, wipe them down carefully before putting them away.

Spray disinfectant over my bag, my keys and the doorknobs I touched.

I pick up my laptop, sit on my bed, lean on the pillow placed against the wall, take up my blanket (it was chilly out), open my laptop, start typing and clicking and watching, and then just stay there until it’s time for the next grocery run.

Floating untethered

Nowadays, there are moments when I feel as if I’m not present in this world. As if I’m in a dream where everything is sluggish — I look at my palms, wiggle my fingers but they seem to move with a delay, in slow glitchy motions — and a feeling of helplessness floods through me. I’m simply an observer floating untethered over the world, struggling to get a grip, find a hold, make sense of the changes flying past me even as they accelerate with every passing second.

Check out my other post from earlier today, ‘i can’t help but romanticise the night’, which is a tad bit happier.

Written in response to the image prompt provided by Sonya’s Three Line Tales, Week 217.

Photo by NASA on Unsplash

i can’t help but romanticise the night

Alternative title: A Potterhead goes to watch the Cursed Child and the expected happens

I walk down the street,
it’s late
and I can’t help but romanticise the night
after walking out of the spell that was
the Cursed Child.

The night —
it’s not wrapped in a starry blanket 
but a stark blank canvas
onto which the buildings are painted,
the light from the windows are the stars in this city.

The Cursed Child’s music
floods through my earphones
and becomes the soundtrack to my steps.

I breathe in the cool air
as the music crescendos
and wonder why the hours long play 
felt not-quite-long-enough.

An echo
of the slight sadness I felt 
when the cast took their final bow
still lingers.

The play had
enveloped the whole theatre,
not missing one nook or cranny,
in its wake of evoking
a rainbow of emotions
and unfettered reactions.

And now its music
envelops the night around me
in its spectacle.

I went to see Harry Potter and the Cursed Child live almost a year ago and it was one of the most — well — magical experiences. So here is a piece of prose with line breaks about that night.

(Unrelated: I don’t know if this classifies as “poetry” – which is a whole other debate – but I like the way the line breaks look and read so I’m kind of just going with it.)

Hope you’re staying safe!

Photograph: Saakshi Gupta

An Hour and a Half

Like crayons of every colour sticking out of their box – lined close to one another – the houses stood in front of me as the boat docked onto the port. I was expecting a camera to pop out and a ‘cut’ to be yelled, expecting the beauty in front of me to collapse like a temporary set up for a movie, for like a picturesque movie scene the site in front of me looked.

As I proceeded, I came up to a place where a canal snaked through – boats floating stagnant on the water – dividing the island, only to be connected by beautiful bridges that arched over it.

The balconies and windows lined with potted flowers, a common sight, but only adding to the dreamy haze that seemed to surround the place; their colours seeming to imitate those of the houses around.

I imagine: Juliet out on one of the balconies and Romeo standing on the cobbled streets below, committing themselves to one another.

A cluster of tables scattered at intervals outside restaurants, bustling with tourists. Small stalls bursting with souvenirs – postcards, key chains, magnets, bookmarks – dotted around the place. Shops adorned with intricate lace and glass works stand along the path where houses aren’t.

An hour and a half. I was in Burano for only an hour and a half, rushing through the beauty around to get to the next place on the list like a typical tourist. But that short time, apparently, was enough.

Photograph of Burano: Saakshi Gupta

A Thief. A Criminal.

“Time is a thief,”

you had said once.

And I hadn’t quite grasped the meaning of it back then. Your words always had a way of baffling me. And even though your face is fading away from my memory with every passing moment, your words, your words still echo through me clearly and sharply.

Time is indeed a thief, it is a criminal for taking you away from me and making me see sense in your words.

posted for Lillie McFerrin’s Five Sentence Fiction.

Photo by Zoe Holling on Unsplash