ALMOST LIKE ANY OTHER SATURDAY
It was almost like any other Saturday. The day was quiet. The air had that milky sunny texture that the people of this city had been waiting for for some weeks now. A density of light and warmth that seemed to offer a sort of easing. People had opened up their windows wide as if to welcome in this air. It was as if they were waiting for something, expectant. Or perhaps it was just the ordinary expectancy of a Saturday morning, with sun. When you imagine that there is all to play for.
She let the postman in to the apartment block. He comes up the stairs, knocks and gives her a parcel, a book she had forgotten that she ordered. She thanks him and then puts on her shoes and goes out to buy the paper. Although this will delay the starting of work she considers it the right thing to do, on a Saturday morning; to get the words out of bed, gently moving. And also she thinks that is good to meet people, after seven days living completely alone, to say Good Morning, if only to the woman who will sells her bread or the man in the Newsagent, who is usually sullen, but is unusually cheerful and eager for conversation this morning; to test the air on the street and the sounds in the air
And so one couldn’t really say that it was any different, to other Saturdays when the sun had opened suddenly like that, in through the windows. Yet there was a change.
It was a feeling a bit like unfinished business. Like something should have happened or was about to happen. Like we were all waiting, with our windows open, for something to begin.
(27th April 2011)
It was almost like any other Saturday. The day was quiet. The air had that milky sunny texture that the people of this city had been waiting for for some weeks now. A density of light and warmth that seemed to offer a sort of easing. People had opened up their windows wide as if to welcome in this air. It was as if they were waiting for something, expectant. Or perhaps it was just the ordinary expectancy of a Saturday morning, with sun. When you imagine that there is all to play for.
She let the postman in to the apartment block. He comes up the stairs, knocks and gives her a parcel, a book she had forgotten that she ordered. She thanks him and then puts on her shoes and goes out to buy the paper. Although this will delay the starting of work she considers it the right thing to do, on a Saturday morning; to get the words out of bed, gently moving. And also she thinks that is good to meet people, after seven days living completely alone, to say Good Morning, if only to the woman who will sells her bread or the man in the Newsagent, who is usually sullen, but is unusually cheerful and eager for conversation this morning; to test the air on the street and the sounds in the air
And so one couldn’t really say that it was any different, to other Saturdays when the sun had opened suddenly like that, in through the windows. Yet there was a change.
It was a feeling a bit like unfinished business. Like something should have happened or was about to happen. Like we were all waiting, with our windows open, for something to begin.
(27th April 2011)