Sillage /see-yazh/: The impression made in space after something or someone has been and gone.
They are 17 and 20 years old.
Emma
The bell on the door chimes, alerting you of yet another customer. You are not in the habit of looking up to see who is getting their items tilled, let alone check who has walked into the shop. No one interesting comes at 2 in the morning in a convenience store. And anyways, Harry Dresden fighting a bunch of fallen angels is a lot more interesting. You do, though, keep track of the person through sound. You don't want to get sacked, just because someone decided to rob a convenience store.
The customer comes and stands in front of the counter. You lift a finger, asking them to wait a minute. The chapter is just too interesting to be let go off right now. "Dammit Dresden!" You hit your fist on the counter in frustration, "You need to reach conclusions faster man." You place the bookmark inside and close it.
"Need another box of tissues?" Your eyes shoot up to see the face. It's her. The tissue box girl. It's been a little over a year since you first and last met her - that sad, cold day. She is smiling, clearly amused.
You fumble for the items she has placed on the counter and curse yourself. You don't want this woman to see how much her few words had effected you. How much you have thought of her, and hoped to chance upon her. You try to recover the remainders of your dignity.
"For all you know he could be real, and needs the advice." You look at her again. Her eyes twinkle with delight.
"Yes, a wizard prone to setting things on fire would heed your advice. Absolutely seems likely." You can't believe she has read the books, not a lot of people have. It's a pleasant surprise, one that will ensure you get to talk to her longer, because God knows you have wanted to.
You bill the items as slow as you can without making it look too strange. "I'm still waiting for you to deny his existence."
She shrugs. "No need for the unnecessary."
A hush falls. You keep billing the items while she watches you patiently. You keep dragging the inevitable, without as much as a sigh of complain from her. You like to think that she is enjoying this too. Or just being a little too polite. You hand her the receipt when you are done. While she looks through her bag for her wallet you ask her name.
Her movements cease momentarily. She doesn't reply, and you feel like you have committed a crime. She hands you the money, asks you to keep the change and almost runs out of the store. You stand there, stunned. "What the hell just happened?"
She walks into the store again the next day. Your eyes follow her every movement. You can see she doesn't need to get anything, she already did that yesterday, but she still roams the aisles. "It's getting a little too ridiculous. You walking the aisles like that." A good seven minutes have passed by then. She sighs heavily, picks up a bar of chocolate and walks to the counter. "You don't really need to buy anything. You can just talk. If that is what you want."
She shakes her head, "Gives me a purpose."
"God you are weird." You smile at her. She looks taken aback by your warmth.
"You are not mad at me?" Her words drip with confusion.
"Because you ran out on me just 'cause I asked your name? Nah. You must have a pretty good reason to do so. Though I would have liked it if you wouldn't have run like I was about to set you on fire."
She places her arms on the counter, leaning a little. Her gaze lowers, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be so rude."
"It's ok. Does that mean you will tell me your name?"
"Not necessarily." She replies without lifting her gaze.
"Can I know why?"
"Would you mind if I don't tell you?" Her gaze returns to you, an unspoken apology already hanging in them.
It hurts you a little, sure, just not enough to do something that would drive this woman away. "I guess I will survive."
"Thank you, for being so considerate."
"Yea, no problem. So tell me something."
"Anything."
"How hard are you trying right now to not look at my name tag?"
She throws her head back and laughs, "Oh my, so hard. So very, very hard. I think I will give myself a concussion if I try any harder."
"Well then, as a slight punishment, I will leave it on." You feel a little proud, for eliciting that laugh from her, and on some crazy level, for being the one to make things a little hard for her. Hey, you are a rebellious teen. What can you do?
"I was right. You are very considerate. I will leave now."
"You don't have to." She looks straight at you, into your eyes and you feel as if you will. The seriousness, the maturity, the intensity of that look leaves you baffled. You stumble over thoughts, words, letters. But it's her words that rescue you.
"I wish I could. But I really must go. I do sincerely apologize."
All you do is nod. She places a bill on the counter and leaves the store, with a chocolate in hand.
You stand there, yet again stunned. "What the hell just happened?"
She returns the next day and like the previous night, walks through the aisles aimlessly. And just like the other night, you watch her. This time you really take a look at her. You notice how she is the just about the same height as you, how her hair if not tied in a ponytail will almost fall till her lower back, or how her walk and posture are of a woman much older and more developed, but her face has the innocence and softness of a person much younger.
"Your name tag is missing." She points out while skimming over the stacks of chocolate.
Her words break you out of your reverie, "Didn't want to torture you for too long."
"Ah. Such generosity. I am humbled."
"Yes Shakespeare. Thank you."
She laughs, and picks up a packet of Reese. "Oh I wish I was Shakespeare." She places the chocolate and a bill on the counter.
You pick them both up and get to work. "What's with the scar?" You ask, brushing over your own upper lip.
"It got cut." She replies nonchalantly.
"Not one for words, are we?" You hand her the chocolate and the change.
She slides the change back, "Keep it. Words I can do, stories I cannot. Especially not mine."
"It is a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma, but perhaps there is a key." You recite the words from memory. She smiles that warm smile of hers.
"I am the 'it'?"
"Damned if it be me." She shakes her head in disbelief.
"Good night, love." That word, it warms you. Though she doesn't know your name, she has given you a title.
"Good night."
"And just so you know, there is no key."
And with those words she leaves you hoping, praying that the next day she will return.
Regina
You go back to meet her again. And again. And again.
It has become a routine of yours. You honestly cannot think of doing anything else but that. She tells you she has picked up the weekend shifts too. Tells you how her boss thought she had gone mad, but the guy she replaced had hugged her for what felt like forever. She hasn't travelled a lot, hasn't seen much of anything, but her stories are always captivating, interesting. And she always seems to have one.
You don't notice until later, but your visiting time has also lengthened. What used to be a mere visit of a few minutes stretched into a half an hour and then an hour. You wonder how long it will take to become two. Not long you suppose.
She always has things to keep you entertained. Sometimes it stories, sometimes its games, sometimes it's just two of you sitting on the counter-top eating the food you have just purchased. Sometimes it is her reading her favourite books out loud to you (which almost always includes 'The Dresden Files' series). A few times she sneaks a movie in, a hand always on the keyboard ready to change the channel back to CCTV in case some customer walks in. They hardly ever do. One day though there is a guitar placed behind her.
"I thought I would sing something for you today."
You stand there dazed. This girl who once called you a riddle isn't shy from being one herself. A riddle who unravels herself for you. To whom you give nothing in return, and she never asks. You nod and make your way to the aisles, picking up tiny packets of food and a couple of cans of coke. Once you two go through that routine, you walk around to the other side of the counter and place yourself on it. She sits on the chair, the guitar resting on her legs. Her fingers place themselves over the strings and you wonder how such delicate hands will play such a hard instrument.
She starts to play, and it takes you a while to recognize the song. You had only ever heard the original version. Her fingers flow over the strings. And then she sings. Only one word comes to mind: mellifluous. It's entrancing, powerful, and soulful. A voice that resonates in your heart and mind. You close your eyes and let the voice combined with the words of 'Old Skin' wash over you.
She ends the song and you wait for the residual sounds of the guitar to vanish. You open your eyes, and see that she is looking expectantly at you.
"It was beautiful." You don't know if you can give her anything better, so you put all your emotion into the three words. She senses that, and thanks you. She places the guitar back, the two of you settling into another contented silence. "You have to sing for me again someday."
She gulps down a mouthful of coke and nods. "Maybe one day I will sing one of my original compositions to you."
You smile, wide and – for some reason – proud. And here you thought you were the prodigy.
Despite you telling her countless times that the repeated pattern of time spent together has not - in even the slightest - gotten boring, she refuses to accept it. She now has a new hobby – teaching you how to handle a convenience store. You have learned almost everything there is to about delivery, shifts, inventory, laws, precautions and things that you will never bother with. But it keeps the time going and definitely keeps her satisfied. Not like you have anything better to contribute anyways.
It is your final day as a student, she announces. If you can get down the art of tilling and billing, you will be a full-fledge convenience store master.
She is sitting on the counter beside you, telling you how to work the machine. You can't believe she has you tilling your own purchases.
"Can I ask you something?" There is uncertainty in her voice, and a little bit of fear.
"Sure." You say as you start putting things in your backpack.
She tucks loose hair behind her left ear, her other hand fidgeting with the hem of the shirt. It has got you worried now. "Why won't you tell me your name?" A beat. "And why won't you ask mine?"
You place your palms on the counter, and pivot back and forth on your heels. You debate if you should tell her. For more than three months now, she has told you little details about herself, and you have given her nothing. And now, are you ready to give her back something, which for you, is bigger deal that she could possibly imagine. You can still see her playing with her shirt, a nervous expression donning her face. You stop pivoting, and lean on your arms, your head drooped.
"Because it hurts less."
"I – I don't understand."
"When I was nine, my parents died in a car accident. I and my little sister were adopted by my dad's best friend. Oh they were such nice people. When I was twelve, my sister died. We were playing in the tree house and it just … collapsed. That is how I got this scar." An angry huff escapes you. "Can you even imagine? I leave with a scar and she leaves. Gone. It wasn't even a year when my foster mother died of a heart-attack. Papa couldn't bear the thought of having lost my sister and mother in less than a year. Doctor's said he had lost his will to live. In a matter on 4 years I lost everyone I held dear. And those are just the deaths I am telling you about. Oh how many times people I have loved have moved on from me."
"I still don't understand."
You straighten yourself and face her. "That is how I protect myself. The first time I met you, I felt a pull towards you. I wanted to know all about you, ask your name, talk about endless and useless topics."
"Then why didn't you?" Her words have an edge to them.
"Because nothing is permanent. Names can get etched into your brain forever. You can always place a face to it. Just a face though, it fades away and becomes a distant memory in your brain, not triggered by anything." You run your hands along your face in frustration. "Don't you get it? How sure are you that this thing we have is going to last?"
"I don't know. But that is no excuse." Anger emanates from her.
"No it's not. But I am done getting hurt. Can you understand that?"
"So you would rather live your whole life alone?"
"Yes. Maybe." You calm yourself a little. "Or until I am ready to be hurt again."
Her voice drops to almost a whisper, "You don't necessarily have to get hurt."
Tears well in your eyes. You blink them away. Her hands wipes them away. "I know. But I am not ready to tread those waters yet. I am sorry. I should never have let this get so far." You pick up your bag and drape the strap over one shoulder. "I should really get going. It's getting late." You squeeze past her. "I'm so sorry, love."
"Emma." You stop dead in your tracks. "My name's Emma. And I am not going anywhere."
Your hands latch onto the bags strap. You close your eyes and repeat the name in your mind.
Emma. Emma. Emma.
It suits her. You smile, sadness filling you from the inside out. You turn to her anxious self, slowly closing the gap between you two. You have never stood so close to her that you have felt her breath on your skin, been able to see every line and crease on her forehead. Never close enough to kiss her.
Your lips meet hers. You don't press and neither does she. Your one hand holds onto her neck, the other her hip. She applies slight pressure on your lips, and you return it. The kiss is chaste and brimming with emotion. You want to keep kissing her forever. Then again you can't.
Just. Fucking. Can't.
You pull back. "Please." She begs, wild tears streaming down her face. "Please don't."
"I'm sorry. Sorry. So Sorry." Your words are barely audible, even to you. You let both your hands drop abruptly, turn and run out of the store with all the strength you can muster, afraid she might run after you if you are not fast enough.
Emma
She doesn't return.
And each day that she doesn't that little smidgen of hope gets wiped out further.
Until one day it is no more.
Until one day when all is left is the imprinted taste of a nameless face on your lips.
A/N: thank you MsCrazybird & Ryoko05 for the feedback. I have added names before change of POV's.
- The song 'Old Skin' is by Olafur Arnalds sung by Arnor Dan, from his album called 'For Now I Am Winter.' It is an absolute necessity that you listen to the whole album. That man makes gorgeous music.
- 'The Dresden Files' is a book series by Jim Butcher, that I must insist as insistently as possible HAS to be read. 14 in the series so far. 15th comes out soon.