"Sorry?" Chris stops and pulls out his earphones. The music is gone, but the heart of a city like this will always remain a noisy place.
"Why the long face? Come on, where's your Christmas Spirit?" the girl repeats herself, and the words feel what they exactly are: a smart business move. A friendly chatter with this cute little blonde in the middle of a cold grim winter day, and all you have to give is some blood or money in return. And since it's Red Cross and/or Cancer Research UK, you won't feel like a pathetic sob either.
Charity, not mental prostitution. Who could refuse a deal like that?
Soon enough, she is asking about his age. Chris knows it's hard to tell by appearance: he's not a kid now, but he couldn't really be called an adult either. By now he can't help smiling a little, mostly because of the sight of numerous rings all around the girl's lips, and even more of them inside her mouth. Has he finally met his first real-life British punk? A lovely disappointment.
No, he's not twenty-one yet, so they won't have any use of him. And they have a little language barrier here, he explains, so she asks where did he come from, and how's the UK treating him. Chris thinks back of the last few days, the people and events that left the biggest impression on him. Finally, he simply asks if he could hug the girl.
She doesn't refuse, it happens, and they probably both get a little creeped out, but after they say goodbye and part away, Chris can't help to feel a little better about his life. Little accidents like this, outbursts of almost nonexistent, but incredibly powerful manifestations of compassion and empathy can make you believe in angels. Even if they are only angels for their part-time jobs.
* * *
It's early January in 2013, and Chris is walking across Manchester Piccadilly, occupied with puzzling, although not too interesting thoughts. He's in a hurry today, so he tries to avoid eye contact with any of the Red Cross girls out there. A futile attempt.
"Now there's a smile!," cries out one of them, but it's not a sequel, remake or any kind of intentional reference to some 2009 events. She doesn't look like that girl, and Chris probably doesn't look like a kid anymore either, because her first question goes like this: "A little chatter, sir?"
Sorry, I'm kind of busy, is what Chris wants to say as he rushes past her, but the sudden realization freezes his tongue. Did she really mean he was smiling? Does he look happy? Is he even able to look happy?
Once again Chris thinks back of the last few days, the people and events that left the biggest impression on him. He celebrated new year's eve at a friend's place, they were drinking, watching movies, playing games and talking about everything and nothing at the same time. It was like any lazy summer week from their past lives.
He thinks about the many missed opportunities to just hang out like that with people he knows back at home; and he feels the stinging uncertainty pf not knowing when he will be able to do it again with anyone, anywhere. After a few minutes of walking, he decides to blog about something. And he already knows that as a gentle, but clear note to self, the final lines will go like this:
Let it go, man. You can't get back to how and was before. Stop whining, and try to make a future worthy of your past.
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