People (3)

People (3)

L. from Q

“This is the second time I’ve put on makeup this month,” L said, leaning over the sink as she looked in the mirror. The statement was without judgement, as if to say, such is the life of a backpacker. She put up her blond hair into a pony tail and considered her reflection.

“This dress is a little to beach-y. But if don’t wear it…it’ll never be worn.” She shrugged and looked at me, a smile on her face.

She’s very Swedish. Blue eyes, blond hair, fair skin. Extremely pretty. She’d studied industrial engineering and was now doing her masters in industrial management. Or something like that. I couldn’t quite keep up with it.

She pulled people in, started conversations and kept them going, knew when to listen and when to talk. This was her third big solo backpacking trip.

“It’s kind of hard to stop,” was all she had to say about it.

B.R.

“Now that is amazing!” She dropped the bag full of seasweed and unbent herself, looking intently down on the little plant she had almost walked over. “That wasn’t here last time!”

“What is it?” I asked, looking at the little green leaves.

“New Zealand celery. A native. You don’t find it often because the sheep eat it right away and people don’t plant it in their gardens because it isn’t pretty.”

The rest of the time we were loading seaweed inter her car, she kept talking about the seaweed. Her face lit up and new energy making her move quickly.

“I’d never expect for it to grow here,” she said, looking out at the sandy wall it was growing from. Just meters from the beach, it looked like it could be blown away any second. It didn’t seem possible for that little, fragile plant to compete with the pounding surf and strong wind.

But grow greenly it did.

J.

I did not expect to meet him. In fact, I never really met him. Just the J I got a glimpse of. He is one of those people the girls fall in love with without really ever knowing him.

He always carried the makings of a cigarette with him, tucked into his apron pocket. During his breaks, he’d roll a cigarette, sometimes concentrated, sometimes a world away, sometimes intent on his conversation.

Cigarette rolled, he places it in his mouth. Lips open, eyes far away. He’s a statue. Time stops. The cigarette is not yet lit, he’s reaching for his lighter. Eyes bluer than blue, lips red, skin concealed by the night.

He could be dead. Moments before the spark of the lighter starts the world again, he is frozen. And I am frozen, caught up in the ritual.

In those moments the world stops. J slips away.

Breathes in. Out. In.

The world moves again.