Helena
by Lee Carrick
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: One strong one only.
Description: As they say in Little Italy, "Faint heart ne'er won fair maiden."
_____________________________________________________________________
Helena was the kind of girl who was easy to love and easy to leave.
She smoked like she’d just filed for a long overdue divorce. She spoke like she’d just lost her virginity and she smiled like she just heard music for the first time.
I found her on a street in Manhattan, New York, outside the Mulberry street bar on Mulberry Street. She sat outside with a blue beret covering her eyes and face from the bright April sunlight with a beer, half drunk, warming beside her. She had long blonde hair and always wore cut-off jeans and tight t-shirts. I guessed she was Swedish or Danish but definitely Scandinavian. She looked twenty-nine or thirty but could have been much older or younger.
I quietly stared at her from the table beneath the window. The bar was famous amongst movie enthusiasts; it had appeared in many Italian American films including The Godfather, Donnie Brasco and a few episodes of The Sopranos.
The window was covered in posters and pictures of actors, which made the bar dark as no light could penetrate the thick layers of memorabilia.
Helena sat as still as the alcohol in her glass. People walked by her in the street, sometimes only a few inches away and yet she never looked up in curiosity, she wasn’t a people watcher and yet she sat outside alone, comfortably alone and confidently silent; unaware of the stranger whose eyes were fixed on her.
I finished my drink and ordered another, went back to my seat and wondered how I could approach her; how I could begin a conversation with her how I could love her. But I was a coward, still am, and there was no way I was going to make any move, I was simply sitting in a bar, drinking a beer and staring at a girl fantasizing about a future that would never occur in this universe; I’d done this one thousand times before and I would do it again.
I observed her closely as she picked up her beer, placed the glass to her lips and slowly drank the golden liquid; she had left a red lipstick mark on the glass and she placed it back down on the pavement beside her. Helena gently pulled a cigarette from the box, struck a match on the concrete beneath her, lit up and inhaled deeply; sucked the cancerous fumes into her lungs, looked to the cloudless sky and exhaled with satisfaction. And still I watched.
A large Italian guy walked into the bar in a pin stripe suit. His name was Fat Tony; I knew this because I’d been drinking in the bar every day for a week, that’s how I knew her name was Helena. I’d been watching her for five days, she’d been ignoring me for five days; it was a war of attrition.
Fat Tony ordered a whisky and water from the bar and spoke in Italian to the barman. I listened to them but I didn’t understand them. I watched her but I didn’t understand her. Why did she drink there every day? Why did she always sit on the dirty pavement outside? Why didn’t she notice me? Why didn’t she love me?
The bar was old, dingy and cold. It was always quiet, even at night, and it was dishevelled. Instead of a door, the toilet was partitioned with a hung curtain, and if you sat down to take a shit your knees would protrude and could be seen by other people taking a piss.
I smoked steadily, cigarettes were my only friend there; they kept me company and stopped me feeling alone. I hid behind them. I imagined that one day Helena would forget her matches and would be forced to ask me for a light, she would ask where I was from. I would ask her If she wanted a drink? We would go back to her apartment and fuck in her bed. Then we would fall in love and meander through Central Park without a care in the world for the rest of our lives.
It was three o’clock now. In fifteen minutes she would leave as she always did. Finish her drink, take the empty glass to the bar, thank Fat Tony and walk down Mulberry Street towards China Town, and I would watch her walk away.
I drank my drink quickly, I decided I would follow her, I wanted to know where she lived or worked and then maybe I could think of a reason to speak to her.
Helena finished her drink and left the bar. I stayed in the seat beside the window. I didn’t need to follow her; she would be at the bar the following day and I could talk to her then, maybe.
Swearwords: One strong one only.
Description: As they say in Little Italy, "Faint heart ne'er won fair maiden."
_____________________________________________________________________
Helena was the kind of girl who was easy to love and easy to leave.
She smoked like she’d just filed for a long overdue divorce. She spoke like she’d just lost her virginity and she smiled like she just heard music for the first time.
I found her on a street in Manhattan, New York, outside the Mulberry street bar on Mulberry Street. She sat outside with a blue beret covering her eyes and face from the bright April sunlight with a beer, half drunk, warming beside her. She had long blonde hair and always wore cut-off jeans and tight t-shirts. I guessed she was Swedish or Danish but definitely Scandinavian. She looked twenty-nine or thirty but could have been much older or younger.
I quietly stared at her from the table beneath the window. The bar was famous amongst movie enthusiasts; it had appeared in many Italian American films including The Godfather, Donnie Brasco and a few episodes of The Sopranos.
The window was covered in posters and pictures of actors, which made the bar dark as no light could penetrate the thick layers of memorabilia.
Helena sat as still as the alcohol in her glass. People walked by her in the street, sometimes only a few inches away and yet she never looked up in curiosity, she wasn’t a people watcher and yet she sat outside alone, comfortably alone and confidently silent; unaware of the stranger whose eyes were fixed on her.
I finished my drink and ordered another, went back to my seat and wondered how I could approach her; how I could begin a conversation with her how I could love her. But I was a coward, still am, and there was no way I was going to make any move, I was simply sitting in a bar, drinking a beer and staring at a girl fantasizing about a future that would never occur in this universe; I’d done this one thousand times before and I would do it again.
I observed her closely as she picked up her beer, placed the glass to her lips and slowly drank the golden liquid; she had left a red lipstick mark on the glass and she placed it back down on the pavement beside her. Helena gently pulled a cigarette from the box, struck a match on the concrete beneath her, lit up and inhaled deeply; sucked the cancerous fumes into her lungs, looked to the cloudless sky and exhaled with satisfaction. And still I watched.
A large Italian guy walked into the bar in a pin stripe suit. His name was Fat Tony; I knew this because I’d been drinking in the bar every day for a week, that’s how I knew her name was Helena. I’d been watching her for five days, she’d been ignoring me for five days; it was a war of attrition.
Fat Tony ordered a whisky and water from the bar and spoke in Italian to the barman. I listened to them but I didn’t understand them. I watched her but I didn’t understand her. Why did she drink there every day? Why did she always sit on the dirty pavement outside? Why didn’t she notice me? Why didn’t she love me?
The bar was old, dingy and cold. It was always quiet, even at night, and it was dishevelled. Instead of a door, the toilet was partitioned with a hung curtain, and if you sat down to take a shit your knees would protrude and could be seen by other people taking a piss.
I smoked steadily, cigarettes were my only friend there; they kept me company and stopped me feeling alone. I hid behind them. I imagined that one day Helena would forget her matches and would be forced to ask me for a light, she would ask where I was from. I would ask her If she wanted a drink? We would go back to her apartment and fuck in her bed. Then we would fall in love and meander through Central Park without a care in the world for the rest of our lives.
It was three o’clock now. In fifteen minutes she would leave as she always did. Finish her drink, take the empty glass to the bar, thank Fat Tony and walk down Mulberry Street towards China Town, and I would watch her walk away.
I drank my drink quickly, I decided I would follow her, I wanted to know where she lived or worked and then maybe I could think of a reason to speak to her.
Helena finished her drink and left the bar. I stayed in the seat beside the window. I didn’t need to follow her; she would be at the bar the following day and I could talk to her then, maybe.
About the Author
Lee Carrick is in his twenties. Originally from Newcastle, he now lives in Edinburgh. His biggest passions in life are writing and travelling, and he likes to combine the two. He has been writing poetry since he was 15, but only recently began to write short stories and his first novel. He was inspired to write by Ian Banks' The Wasp Factory and Neil Gaiman's Smoke and Mirrors.
Lee’s website can be found at http://leecarrick.weebly.com. His poetry can also be read at http://writers-network.com/members/carrick. And his blog is at http://scheemieintheroom.tumblr.com.
Lee’s website can be found at http://leecarrick.weebly.com. His poetry can also be read at http://writers-network.com/members/carrick. And his blog is at http://scheemieintheroom.tumblr.com.