untitled at the moment

The abandoned girl sat on the cold dark asphalt. Each rain drop felt as though it were mocking her; each crystal pod spilling into the crevices in her sweater. Each fold became home to the cool liquid that fell from the sky. The girl pulled the too small hood over her too big head; the fabric not able to reach enabling the rain to trickle onto her pale face. Her Irish eyes settled on the dry brick establishment across the menacing highway. The dividing wall stood, denying access to the one escape in the decrepit town.


Oliver's Bar stood on the same plot for fifty-four years. Adjacent buildings grew tall and were demolished. It saw the road before it turn from dirt, to asphalt, to four lanes, to eight. There had been a few Olivers and even an Amy. But Jason Mathews owned it now, the girl recalled as the amber glow from the traffic light gleamed on her face.
Traffic was minimal on a Tuesday morning, especially when it rained. Rain was never good for the town; no one wants to go to the beach in the rain. All of the tourists decided to stay at their respective hotels or go to neighboring museums. Locals went elsewhere. The girl, she travelled where her feet brought her. She never bothered to fret over the destination. The journey was what caught her eye. The people, places, ideas, sights, everything was registered and stored in the mental fireproof lock box for future reference.

You see, the abandoned girl, was not abandoned in the true sense of the word. Her name is Konstantine. Konstantine is a writer. She doesn't write for a paper or a magazine or a company; she writes for herself. Konstantine has never been published and she probably will not make any money for herself, but it gives her great pleasure. She has great dreams
to travel the world and record her findings. She believes that, by bottling her joy and experiences in the swirls and dots and curls that are words, she can transfer such things to everyone. Konstantine is not stable. She carries three pens, two black and one red, a three-subject, green, college ruled notebook, and a pocket thesaurus with her at all times in an old, Victorian era, leather pocketbook. Konstantine carries two quarters, a dime, and four pennies as well as two hundred and fourteen dollars on her person. The amount is of no importance, it is merely what she decided was enough to sustain life. She lives off of Saltines, fruit, and microwaveable noodles in a cup, but her favorite food is ravioli.
Konstantine's mother was a maid in an old Brooklyn apartment complex; her father, a drinker. He hit the bottle daily, sometimes hourly. One time, it decided to hit back. Konstantine was six. Three days later, her mother was stabbed during a mugging. The next day, Konstantine turned seven, and watched her mother slip away quietly in the bustle of the old hospital. No one in ever Brooklyn saw Konstantine again. Rumors ran viciously through each and every hallway; some so ridiculous that they almost could have been true. Reality was, Massachusetts had become her new home. Each salty breeze welcomed her in. Each lap of the beckoning sea magnetized her to this tourist paradise.
Konstantine abandoned the traditional way of life and decided to take up her own. She slept on the beach, she slept in strangers’ houses, she slept in bars, where she would sleep the next night did not seem to cross Konstantine’s mind very often, and when it did, it held little to no importance. Food only crept into her barricaded mind when starvation tickled at the door. She spoke little and communicated in smiles. This was, by far, the most extravagant feature. Her smile could light up the darkest of souls.

Konstantine cocked her head so to let the few strands of her brown hair that lay in front of her eyes fall to the side of her face. She tucked her index finger behind them and tucked them behind her right ear. Clutching her notebook in her left hand, she brought it into her body. The warmth emanating seemed to charm the pages. Konstantine made the decision right there. She was going to walk right up to the next person she saw and ask them to read her writing. She had been working intently on a novel. The cross-outs and misspellings could fill another whole notebook. The binding was threadbare, held together by stolen pieces of multicolored duct tape found on the telephone poles and street signs throughout the town. But, even though the cover looked depressing and not too promising, the inside shone like a child’s first bicycle. Smile providing at first sight but proved to be even more gratifying once mastered.

The highway quieted amidst Konstantine’s busy thoughts. A few sobriety deprived females broke Konstantine’s train of thought. Their heavy footsteps echoed in her mind, she had promised herself she would never touch that stuff. She hated the way it made people, how they acted, how they spoke, what they became. The girls piled into a waiting taxi and a few moments later, the cab driver sped away. Konstantine watched it. It sped up past the speed limit, the “full” light shining brightly against the black scenery. She watched until it became a red blur in the distance. Taking a deep breath, Konstantine stuck her right foot over the yellow line that separated the shoulder from the black asphalt. Her left foot followed almost involuntarily. Before her fractured mind could recognize it, Konstantine was straddling the middle, concrete barricade. Pulling her thin, left leg over top, she slipped onto the northbound side of the highway, about thirty feet from Oliver’s. She drew in another breath, this one a bit shorter than the other, and plodded forward; each step of her feet echoed down the hollow road. Konstantine pressed the notebook closer to her chest. Her breaths became short and she swallowed hard.

The ramshackle bar looked more put together from a distance. As Konstantine neared it, she saw the termite infested wood siding, the peeling paint, the chipped shutters, the flickering lights; it was in dire need for repair. She felt at home. The small, round rocks crushed quietly underneath her weight. Each step brought another ten beats from her heart. Konstantine could smell the tobacco smoke now. The scent of liquor wafted into her awaiting nose. The previously faint outline of people now became pronounced as she neared the emaciated door that read, “Oliver’s” in faded red paint.
Just as Konstantine steadied herself and drew in a final deep breath, the door flung open and a large mass hurled itself into her. She reeled backwards, closing her eyes in preparation for the back-to-ground contact, but it never came. Konstantine carefully opened one eye and saw the force fighting her battle against gravel. His eyes were a rich blue. His hair dark, although everything looked dark in the little light provided. He was a few inches taller than Konstantine, and by the feel of things, pounds heavier.

Konstantine smiled, her only means of communication. Gathering her composure again, she nodded and attempted to slide past her anti-Newton.

“Whoa now, where do you think you’re going?” the stranger asked, “I just almost killed you and then saved your life. You owe it to me to come in and sit with me.”

Konstantine shook her head and again tried to squeeze past him.

The boy stuck out his long tan arm to block her, “Come on,” he pleaded calmly, “I don’t smell that bad.”

Konstantine smiled.

The boy removed the impedance, “Go on. Just please, tell me your name before you go.”

She smiled, pulled her notebook closer, and spoke, “Konstantine.”

And with that, Konstantine slipped into the dim bar filled with tobacco smoke and the scent of liquor and left the boy to muse on his newest acquaintance.