On Sunday afternoons, she sits on a little bench right beside their gate, all dolled up. Sometimes she wears a strong perfume. Sometimes she just smells of soap. She likes wearing black, or skimpy, something that shows her hips and belly button. She chats with her girlfriends in a voice that seems louder than necessary, or they have giggling fits over private jokes only they themselves know. Anyone who passes by them and compliments her about her hair or dress, she acknowledges it with that distinct laughter that reminds you of rutting pigs. I realize “rutting pigs” is somewhat derogatory, but in my world it isn’t. It’s one way of saying it’s fun, visceral, arousing and innocent at the same time. Something inappropriate like that. And sensual.
Vantage Point film When her girlfriends are not around, she focuses her attention thumbing her cellphone. Unlimited texting is all the rage, and she will use up every cent of that P25 Whole Day Texting promo some telecom has the genius to market. So she texts. The intensity you see in her face suggests an ongoing exchange with someone of absolute importance. The president of some First World country, maybe. Or some shirtless dude she’s recently “friended” on Friendster.
The deeper the afternoon gets, the greater her anxiety. The source of that anxiety is not visible. It only touches you as something electric and sad and almost hysterical. She’s laughing even louder now. She’s shouting “look at me! look at me!” except the actual words sound like “ha ha ha ha ha ha! giggle giggle ha ha ha ha!” When night falls, she becomes extra friendly: there’s no acquaintance, remote or not, that gets by without a flattering word, a kind note, from her. The small spontaneous conversations –mostly about shoes, food, favorite color, things you put on your hair, sounds that toys make when you stomp on them — are sustained in this way. Anything. Anything she’ll do just to be out of that house, outside that little life.
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But it’s already evening. So at one point, when the night and a general silence have settled in the neighborhood, like an unspoken command to shut the fuck up, she picks up that little bench. She stands by the gate for a few more minutes, waiting for something, somebody. No one shows up, as usual. She steps inside. You hear the cold finality of the gate’s metal clang as it closes, like the lid of a sarcophagus, a tomb. The gate will remain shut. Until, of course, the next Sunday afternoon. Until something, somebody shows up. Until the answer walks down the road and speaks with her. But maybe not. Never.
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