07.12.02/03.05.04/02.05.04
She never talked to any of the other guests.
Never.
I'm sure of this, because I used to watch her very closely. I just couldn't help it.
I don't know how long she'd been coming to the club before I noticed her. She wasn't the type of woman that attracts much attention. Pale, thin, brown eyes, and brown hair to match them. However, once I knew she was there, I couldn't miss her. She always chose to sit at the same table, one of the small ones that are usually occupied by singles. Always alone, sipping only one drink during the whole evening. No alcohol, ever, I am sure. Once, when I was having one of my rare brave moments, I asked the bartender what her favourite drink was, and he told me that she always had mango juice. Always. I also never saw her wearing anything but black; it's almost as if she wanted to make sure that no one would ever notice her.
Looking back at those nights, I sometimes wonder if she was lonely. She rarely smiled, although she seemed to enjoy the music. Friday means Jazz night at Ozzie's Club, and she only visited the club on Friday nights, every week, no matter what. She would sit there silently at her table, her eyes resting on the band, her body moving slightly along with the music. I could tell that she was only visiting this place because of the music. You know that faraway look that only those people get in their eyes who really feel the music? She had it, every time I watched her.
I don't think she was coming there because she was looking for people to talk to. She didn't even seem to notice anyone but the band and the waitress. There is only one time I remember her looking at something different; the one time our eyes met. That was the night I noticed that hers were brown. The kind of brown eyes that always look warm and friendly, comforting, as if their bearer could never do any kind of evil. When she looked at me, a soft smile seemed to play with her lips for one second or two, and then she turned away once more, back to watching the band as they played "Summertime".
I think that was the night I fell in love.
Whenever I remember that night, there's the soft tune of "Summertime" playing in my head. It's as if someone imprinted it on my brain, directly connected to the memory of her warm eyes. And that soft smile. I wish she had smiled at me just one more time.
You know, I'm no brave man. I live a fairly average life. I've got friends, I've got a job, and someday I'd like to have a family of my own. Maybe a nice suburban home, and a family car to match it. However, not all of my life is average.
When I was still a student at the community college in my hometown, I met a couple of people. People who weren't like my old friends from high school. The kind of people who go to demonstrations and organize rallies, people who openly voice their opinion and are willing to defend it, if necessary in a fight. They're good people, the kind of people who try to make this world a better place for our children to live in.
I was still young and innocent back then. I had never been in a real fight in my whole life, didn't know much about politics I guess I was the kind of guy who was likely to never do anything of real importance in his whole life and be happy about it. But my new friends, they changed that.
Within a mere couple of months I learnt a lot about politics, about agendas and laws, about all the things that simply weren't right. And I wanted to change it all. Oh, how stupid I was!
Back then we wouldn't do much aside from occasional rallies and demonstrations, and a couple of graffiti on public walls. Not much, really, just small things. We never hurt anyone, that much for sure.
After my graduation, I didn't see them that often anymore. I had a job to concentrate on, possibly even a career, and that was becoming more important to me than trying to change the system. No one seemed to mind that, and we still met from time to time to watch a football game or two, or go to some party or a club; just the kind of stuff guy friends will do together.
I'm not sure who started it all; all I know is that a couple of days ago I got a call. Someone had decided that we should fight for the human rights issue once more. Something about Psi Corps and how cruelly they treat rogue telepaths. Could I come over on Thursday night for a special event? I said yes, thinking that this wasn't a bad thing to fight for. It isn't, is it?
I don't remember how or when everything went so horribly wrong.
All I know is that it was night, and that I was cold, and that suddenly someone pulled out a gun.
From then on my memory is very blurry, I only remember bits and pieces, brief scenes, but those with a horrible clarity.
We were climbing over the fence that shut off the compound, and suddenly there were shouts, and then a shot. I'll never be able to forget that sound. It wasn't a hollow sound, like in those movies; it was sharp, as sharp as a knife. Oh, we were so naive and stupid.
I remember jumping down from the top of the fence, and hitting the ground hard. My ankle still hurts when I think of it. The others started to run towards the closest building, but all I managed to do was a hurried limp.
Then there's another couple of minutes lost, and the next thing I remember is stumbling, the rush of adrenaline, and how my hands hurt as I fell forward and tried to catch myself.
I hit the ground hard, and it felt like an eternity but probably was only a few seconds before I was able to catch my breath and turn around to get up again. When I looked up, there was someone standing over me.
It was her.
She was dressed in black as always, but this time it was a uniform. The midnight black uniform of Psi Corps. I stared at her, frozen, too surprised to try to run away. She seemed to recognize me as well. Once more time seemed to slow down and stretch forever as we simply looked at each other, startled, confused, shocked.
I was just about to say something when, suddenly, she clutched her chest, her eyes widening as she did so. No matter how hard I try, I can't remember hearing the shot. But whenever I close my eyes, I can see the look in hers once more. She wasn't frightened, I'm sure of that. She seemed to be sad, actually.
The next thing I remember is standing in the living room of one of the guys, and being shaken by someone. I guess they had been trying to get me to talk for some time before that. I don't how I got there.
All I know is that she is dead.
When I woke up this morning after yet another nightmare, I wasn't sure if I should go to the club tonight. I think I was afraid of having to acknowledge that she wouldn't be there. But I just had to, you know? I just had to
The table she always used to sit at remained empty tonight. The other regulars seemed to notice her for the first time because of this, or rather, because of her absence. For a few minutes irritation seemed to fill the air as they tried to figure out what exactly was wrong. Then a group of strangers walked in; one of them grabbed the chair she always used to sit on and pulled it up to the table they had chosen to sit at. The relief was almost tangible in the air as the hole she had unbeknownst left was filled.
I wonder what I would do if she came in once more, walking through the wooden door all of a sudden as if nothing had happened.
Maybe I'd just walk over to her table, and ask her if she'd like to have a drink or two