Perhaps the one thing Patrick Shore could do well enough in his life was to run. He would lower his head -whether it be with helplessness, determination, humility or a mystical greatness, or all at once, it was difficult to pin down- and barely looking he would take himself where he had been seen running before, but he never noticed whether he was noticed, except for the occasion when he would pass Andrea Storm, a divinely cold cryptic creature with a permanent sound cloud around her head and a half dark bitter haze of premature sophistication in her eyes.
Andrea's eyelashes stuck together of too much mascara, she would grit her teeth painfully behind her perfect but always solemn lips, and she couldn't swim inspite of her resemblance to mermaids and sirens, but Patrick was condemned by his sheer compulsive speed to remain oblivious to this information whenever he would equate himself to lightning, whirlwind and stampede in her presence. Usually in vain, since Andrea was deaf, as one immersed in water and numbed pain naturally is. Andrea, the truth was, had never had a halcyon day. It was all grey subtle humiliations, treading on the eggshells of the extravagant mythical phoenixes she would nurture in her A5 moleskine, which she kept in a box within a bigger box under her bed behind a shoebox with not shoes but tonsil sticks, worn out street maps, rusty nails, single earrings and shells (any seemingly beached object) in it. Andrea Storm made a point of reminding the world regularly that she was beyond it all.
But simple and single minded Patrick Shore begged to differ. In spite of himself- because he had been conditioned into accepting the truism that abstract processes where not his talent- he was convinced that at times he could hear the wheels, the sublime intricate configuration of cogs ticking in her head, turning painfully and full with the residue –the salt and rust of adolescent, or maybe a deeper more permanent- despair, and he "cosmonaut fishbowl"-the ugly 16 year old, a kitesurfer Odysseus washed up on distant white sands by the wind and turmoil of something that could be extreme fear or elation, could not rescue himself from hoping to rescue her.
So there he was again dashing down the promenade, a loose white flag, a vagabond feather, free as a bird, as the halcyons that lay their eggs on the rocks by the surf. Foolish, foolish bright happy birds.