Margot

• April Maung, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2016

“I’m sorry darling, you just missed her!”
Her shoulders drooped, a reaction that she was making a habit out of after encountering opportunity after opportunity, missed by a minute. It wasn’t a rare occurrence, she thought, as her grip tightened around the mountain of papers she cradled, barely holding them together as the wind caressed them out of their comfortable heap. Despite this, she enjoyed the company of the warm breeze, sweeping her off her feet, mindlessly, into her own small niche of memories laced with happiness. Laughter spurted in short bursts among friends, the occasional sharp intake of breath holding the moment before the world continued. Fun was painted on the pavement as they hopped, skipped and jumped towards their dreams and landed in a muddy puddle, murky waters shimmering with distorted reflections. Then, just as they were about to reach the river, she jerked backwards, held back by something she couldn’t shake. In reality, it was either that or the fact that her sash had curled itself around a small sidewalk pole, but she chose to ignore the latter as she untangled the material, her hands slackening as she drifted back into a sleepless dream. She sauntered soundly, one foot in front of the other, one step at a time, lunging forward in motions of unsystematic dance, a sort of artwork in progress. She flung her arms out in a graceful gesture, failing to recall the troubles of having to carry her bulky paperwork until it splattered on the ground, the pages protesting against her awkward struggle to gather them in a neat stack. A stranger, a man, not of young age, assisted her in picking up stray pieces before leaving with a small smile, shining eyes fighting against droopy eyelids, belligerent to keep their spark, burning the last few centimetres of the wick. She looked away, afraid of being the last memory captured in the old man’s mind, and stared straight into her own fear- rejection. It sat at the bus stop, smoking, the scent of a fake vanilla swirled with puffs of smoke. She stood, lifeless, then drew in a sharp breath, held it, and just as the papers flew out of her arms once again, lunged forward, sighed tensely. She approached the woman, sitting meekly; unaware of the rigid steps being taken towards her.
“Margot?”
As she was held in her sister’s embrace, an instantaneous mix of sorrow, regret and happiness flooded her body, her papers flying into the distance, Margot’s sleek face printed on the front.