Project Andromeda

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Birds.

The smoke flew into his lungs. He was a firecracker brought to life by the flame of a calm matchstick.

As his body melted back into reality, he was consumed by guilt. He had reversed two years of hard work. His eyes darted around. There was no one there. No one had witnessed this transgression. His eyes smiled with relief.

Suddenly, he heard a rustle. A pigeon. She was silent, wise, and had seen everything. A tear trickled down his cheek as he let out a frustrated yelp. She startled and quickly flew away.

Seclusion.

Margot was hungry.

She trundled down the stairs of her apartment building, hoping she would meet no one. As she opened the door, she wondered how many people had touched the knob.

At the store, she looked for something healthy. Carrots: gone. Celery: gone. She spotted a sandwich.

The cashier who was wearing gloves and a mask didn’t make eye contact. Margot desperately suppressed the urge to clear her throat.

Upon arriving home, Margot washed her hands. She wiped down her purse and phone and the packaging of the sandwich.

Margot returned to her dining-table-office. She had lost her appetite.

Symmetry.

She slid into the aisle seat. The middle-aged, well-dressed man between her and the train window was staring into an e-reader.

She wondered whether the man had ignored her. Was his book an escape or was he contemplating ordinary details of life while blankly staring at pages? Who did he live with? Did he miss them or was the silent train a respite from daily chaos?

She silently berated herself for her insatiable curiosity about the life of strangers. She turned to her phone.

The man’s eyes darted towards her. He wondered who she was texting.

Construction.

He was surrounded by boxes. Most of them were full.

That morning he dismantled the furniture that they had built together: the dining table on which they hosted brunches, lunches, and dinners; the wooden shelves they had carefully selected from that antique shop; and the sofa on which he had spent many nights in past weeks.

He tried to focus his attention on specific tasks. Folding a shirt. Sealing a box. He found himself contemplating how long it takes to build things and how easily things fall apart.

Histories.

“My grandfather built the foundation of this house. After he passed, my father (your grandfather) and his brothers lived here. I grew up in these corridors with my cousins.

The house grew with our family. A cousin added some rooms; an aunt built a terrace.

I feared that our family would fight over this house. To the contrary, today, hardly anyone will take responsibility for this home.“

She turned away from her father. She set eyes for the first time on the imposing house – its partially dilapidated state and haphazard construction – amazed by how little she know about her past.

Alleyways.

Short breaths. Quick turns.

As she zipped through the narrow alleyways, she could hear them close on her heels. She could see them from the corner of her eye.

She was gasping for air, desperate for rest. Pain shot through her thighs as she ripped through the dingy streets. She couldn’t stop. They would get her. She had to just keep going.

A gunshot. A bullet pierced through the alleyway. She felt herself falling when suddenly

she awoke with a start. Her pillow was drenched with sweat. She was trembling and in tears, tortured by her own imagination.

Chairs.

“This chair has seen everything,” he said.

“It watched me through university. It was in my first apartment and then my second. It knows what my roommates did in my absence: things they don’t want me to know about. It knows my friends well and now it knows you. This chair has seen my different houses, relationships, and jobs: it was a constant.”

The tattered office chair sat on the street by the overflowing garbage bins. Translucent flecks appeared as the drizzle landed on its frayed surface.

He gripped her hand as the truck approached to take the trash away.

Tunnels.

She stopped short of picking up her phone. Should she call?

She remembered his visit. Fireworks, beers on the beach, and torrential rain. It was glorious.

She remembered her bad review. Tears, reflection, and rationalisation. It was comforting.

She remembered many conversations about other friends and lovers. Racy, shady stories that should not be shared. It was indulgent.

She reflected on the passage of time. Forgotten birthdays. Much too long gaps between phone calls. Feeling like a stranger with every visit.

Friendships ebb and flow. Their friendship was in retreat. She decided not to call.

Home.

She stretched out her body, book in hand, letting out a low purr. The warmth and safety of the fleece sheets were lulling her to sleep. Time for bed.

Suddenly, she heard a noise. Her heart stopped. She turned pale.

Quietly setting the blanket aside, she took a deep breath and tiptoed in the darkness towards the kitchen. Her eyes stung. Her body trembled.

She quickly scanned the empty kitchen. On the floor lay an ambitious spoon that had rolled off the counter.

Relief flooded her limp body. For a fleeting moment, her home had not been her own.

Mirrors.

Deep lines furrow her dusky forehead and cradle her circled eyes. Her dimples have company; dark ravines making their way from her sun-spotted nose to her chin.

Mirrors scare her: with every glance another grey. Mirrors reveal how little she has accomplished.

Not today.

Today, her worn forehead and tired eyes are the long work hours that have brought her joy and success. Her sunspots are those carefree beach days. Her wrinkly cheeks are the laughter and tears of the building and breakdown of relationships. Her face is a reflection of her wonderful life.

Smiling, she snaps the compact shut.

Island.

She stood nervously in the skirts aisle. Customer sounds surrounded her: the groans of sizes too large, laughter associated with funny fits, grunts of people squeezing into small sizes. The store assistants looked overwhelmed, doing their best to tide through the holiday season.

She gripped the skirt and walked with determination to the girl sifting systematically through a rack by the window. The girl looked at her, they made eye contact, and smiled.

Together they said “Do you have this in size 12?”

They stared at each other blankly for a split second and then burst into peals of laughter.