Tag: writer

A tiny little story by i.e.faber.

It’s been the kind of month where each week just gets worse. Each week you think, “This’ll be the week I get on top of things”, but you don’t. You fall down like you slip on ice. You don’t even see it and next, you’re on your ass. How’d I get here again?

I work all day and the few hours I have at home are dedicated to preparing myself for the next 13hrs of work. The next struggle. I’ve been working nonstop and yet somehow still have bills past due. At work, no one acknowledges my talents or successes so I wonder why I bother. Heck, people don’t even know my name. Not my neighbors or coworkers, or even my clients who I’ve been working with for years. People in the streets practically bump into me like I’m invisible.

Invisible.

I feel invisible.

Rushing off to work I turn the corner just in time to see the bus pull away. It’s fun to sit on the sidewalk in the freezing cold waiting for the next bus. I should know – I do it all the time. But I have such little time, I use this moment to do some work emails. Hat on, giant coat, bones aching, feeling old and worn out I type on my phone hoping my fingers don’t freeze. I missed the bus because my running was hindered by a limp. Am I so old now my hips are going?

What am I even doing with my life?

What is the point?

“Miss. Miss? MISS!”

“HUH?”  I look up to see a very old man bundled in a hooded coat too large for him hobble over slowly on his cane to speak to me.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just crossed several seas to tell you this: you are beautiful. I can see you have no trouble being beautiful, I simply wanted to tell you in person.”

“HA! Thanks,” I mumble to my phone.
Then, feeling bad that I ignored the only human being who acknowledged my presence in days, I glance up to say something,

but he’s gone.

Then the bus arrives.

It wasn’t until later that evening while brushing my teeth and inspecting the bags under my eyes that his words settle in my brain. How could he even see me to think I was pretty when I was crouched down and so bundled up? Where did he come from? And did he say he crossed “seas”? Surely he meant “streets”? So strange.

But he didn’t say pretty,

he said beautiful.