MONO ISSUE 1 PDF FLIPBOOK - Flipbook - Page 34
current passed between us when we looked at each other. He was good-looking, and with my dark
hair and trim figure, it's not immodest to say that that I was attractive as well. But my brain
registered three surprising things. One: the pull between us had nothing to do with sexual
attraction. Two: I knew the man, or the eyes in the head of the man, but not the man himself.
Three: grey-eyes felt the same way about me.
I was a financial analyst in those days and lived very happily in the world of numbers, spreadsheets, and cost-benefit analyses. I’ve always had a logical and mathematical mind and, as my
high-school English teacher accurately but rather unkindly pointed out, I’m not overly burdened
with imagination. Looking into the man’s eyes, I knew I wasn’t being fanciful. I was confused by
the impossibility of knowing someone that I did not know at all, yet my senses confirmed this
knowing: my palms prickled and tingled, and the smell and taste of woodsmoke inexplicably came
out of nowhere. I blinked, and something fluttered in my chest—
###
Somewhere else, in another time: The road is very busy today, too busy for my liking. The people
and the chickens and the donkeys are making more noise than I’d like, and the passing wagons are
clacking and clattering and splashing up mud. Even the woodsmoke can’t mask the smell of
manure from so many donkeys. A voice cuts through my grumpy thoughts.
“Oh no!” it says.
It is a woman’s voice, full of annoyance and frustration, but also tinged with fear. I turn back
from further down the soggy road and see a young woman is trying to free her foot from the mud.
She’s not from my village, but I’m not surprised to see strangers here since I’m just outside the
crossroads of the big town. She appears to be alone, and no one is stopping to help her. I backtrack and offer her my hand. She ignores me.
“Take it,” I insist. My voice is deep and gruff. A real man’s voice, my wife says. The young woman
looks up, a little frightened. Her eyes are grey, and kind. Trying to put her at ease, I smile and say,
“I won’t bite. My daughter says I look like an ogre but I’m soft at heart.”
Something in my face must make her believe me. She finally smiles back and takes my hand.
Hers is soft and very small in my huge, rough one. I pull her towards me, and her leg is freed but
the shoe does not come with it. I want the young woman to keep clean, and I’m already quite
dirty, so I stick my hand in the puddle and fish the shoe out of the mud for her. A bit more grime
doesn’t matter to me. I find it and scoop out what mud I can from the inside and wipe down the
outside with an old cloth from my pocket. We both laugh at the squelching noise her foot makes
when she puts it on.
“Thank you,” she says. “It was kind of you to stop and help me. My trip will be much easier with
two shoes instead of one.” I chuckle. Suddenly I hear a scream behind me and notice a badly
balanced bundle falling from the top of a passing wagon. I grab the woman’s arm and yank her
close to me; there is no time to do anything else. We both watch, frozen, as a long and lethally
sharp iron rod escapes its ties and slices through the air where the woman had been standing
just a moment ago.
“Phew,” I say, taking my damp cap off and using it to wipe the sweat off of my forehead. “That
could’ve taken your head off.”
The woman looks at the iron rod that is now sticking out of the ground. Touching her belly, she
shivers and turns away. The protective gesture makes me realise that she is carrying a child.
“Someone up there is looking out for me,” she says, looking up at the heavy sky and crossing
herself. “I was lucky to meet you today.”
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