Zary Fekete
Every morning at twenty past seven, Istvan left his apartment to walk to the bookshop at Moricz Square. This was his first job after graduating from high school five years ago.
There was a small vacant lot one block from his apartment. It contained the usual bristling of overgrown bushes and untended patches of grass. It was the last place he passed before arriving at the corner each morning to watch the girl arrive on the tram. He’d been doing this for the past year.
Istvan walked between the shelves of books and wondered about her. She worked in the lawyer’s office next to the tram stop. But where did she live? Perhaps in one of the small houses on the outskirts of the city. Once, on a Saturday, Istvan took the tram to its end stop and he wandered up and down the streets of small houses, not to find her, not exactly, but to imagine.
She seemed to be roughly his age. Perhaps her classmates too had gone off to university or trade school, leaving her to wonder how she might busy herself in her time off from work. If so, then perhaps she was a bit like him.
***
On this particular morning Istvan stood as he usually did, waiting at the corner for the tram. It came promptly and the girl appeared as usual. He waited until she began to cross the crosswalk and then slowly, at a distance, he followed her.
The crosswalk was not busy. Istvan soon was within fifteen feet of her. He watched her walk, and as she did, her hair, which was always pulled into a sensible pony tail, swung back and forth like a metronome. She was wearing a light dress. By the time she disappeared into the lawyer’s office he had made up his mind.
That day he asked Mr. Szabo if he might have the next morning off. Mr. Szabo looked up from his bookkeeping and nodded. For the rest of the day Istvan reshelved books, his mind, all the while, on the girl.
***
The next morning at twenty after seven, Istvan left his apartment and walked quickly up the street. He passed the vacant lot and glanced in. He stopped. There in the middle of all the bushes and tangles of weeds and overgrown grass, was a single dandelion. He glanced at his watch and made a quick decision.
He reached up to the top of the wire fence that ran around the lot, and pulled himself over. Stepping slowly, he made his way through the lot until he was standing before the flower. He smiled, plucked it, and put it in his jacket pocket. When he returned to the fence, he reached for the top and a piece of sharp metal poked his finger. The pain was sharp and blood welled up immediately. He couldn’t believe it. He reached up again, this time more carefully, and pulled himself over. He felt his pants rip as he lifted his leg across the top. He was cursing under his breath once back on the sidewalk, and he glanced again at his watch, realizing he had no time to go home to change.
He ran toward the tram stop.
He arrived just as the tram was pulling away. Across the street there was a flash of color, and he turned in time to see the girl disappear into the lawyer’s office. He glanced down at the dandelion. The bright yellow petals caught the sunlight. Silently he decided. He crossed the street and stood before the entry to the lawyer’s office. Through the window he saw the girl sitting behind the desk. When he pushed the door open, she looked up. Istvan stood for a moment, allowing the door to slowly close behind him.
Istvan realized that she was slightly older than he thought. She had faint wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. Her mouth drooped slightly on the left side, giving her a small frown. Her hair seemed somehow lackluster and flat in the dim light of the office interior. Realizing he had come too far to back out now, he stepped forward and extended the flower to her.
Outside on the street another tram clattered by. A moment later Istvan came out of the lawyer’s office. He slowly walked up the two streets to the bookshop. At the tinkle of the bell, Mr. Szabo looked up.
“Istvan,” he said. “You’re not due until noon. Is something wrong?”
Istvan looked down at his wounded hand and torn pants. “None at all,” he said. “Damn it all to hell.”
Zary Fekete grew up in Hungary. He has a debut novella, Words on the Page, out with DarkWinter Lit Press and a short story collection, To Accept the Things I Cannot Change: Writing My Way Out of Addiction, out with Creative Texts. He enjoys books, podcasts, and many many many films. Twitter and Instagram: @ZaryFekete
Featured photo by Kool Shooters (Pexels)
