Same Old 21st

• Jessi Ta, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2019

i watched from my car, a well proportioned young man resting against his porch. beside him was monroe with cigarettes, her shadow closer to him than the puffs of smoke that enveloped their public space. a single fixture of light was enough to restrain her hands for the time being. he spoke more than she did; she nodded and laughed all the while inching closer with desperation. at night, the trials of single motherhood did look beautiful.

i decided that i needed to change the keyring on my car keys, a hideous and rusty j’aime la france, and that single thought was plentiful justification for me to reach for the ignition and distract myself with my own problems. i took off glancing back at her dainty smile, wishing she had broken down instead.

the gas station was usually empty at this time of night, but it was just my luck that Old Lady Margaret was there, too. i did smile at her, only to be met with a sneer. i parked by the fuel dispenser beside hers and she finished with the dispenser, got into her car and drove off. she rolled down the window and put on display her middle finger, cackling. the brown man inside the store came running out visibly vexed, yelling indistinct words i could not make out. i think he said something along the lines of ‘god save the queen’.
margaret’s petrol rounded my total to ninety dollars, and the brown man took the cash from me eagerly, now smiling. on my left was a stand for keychains and i asked him how much they were. he insisted he would give them to me for free. i took the one that said wo ai fa guo.

at Little Jean there was a woman who sat by the window, her face as pale as the porcelain cup of coffee on her table. her wide brim hat drooped with the corner of her lips and i could not recognise her. a few minutes later, another irregular entered with such vivacity he broke the shopkeepers doorbell. he located the woman almost immediately.
‘We’re having some sort of weird alchemy, some sort of moment here. Don’t ignore this’.
‘Listen’, she ordered, ‘I actually came out here to relax and just do my own thing.’
‘We need to sort this out now, there might not be another time.’
she placed her hand on his shoulder, as men do when they proclaim to be sympathising with one another.
‘maybe another time’.

i put my earphones in, and more triumphant than ever was vivaldi. i could see the woman’s face now, her visage now angular and furrowed. they bickered furiously, and at one point, the man bent forward and he sat on the floor pressing his palms to the mat and cried with the force of a wolf howling on all fours.

wo ai fa guo, what does that even mean?