The Writer and The Artist: End

 

END

 

That very Saturday we took a train into Central London. Changing at Tottenham Hale, we travelled to London Liverpool Street and then took a tube on the central line to Oxford Circus tube station. From there we walked up several walkways and stairs onto the corner of Oxford Street and Regent Street and made our way down towards the cafeteria.

            It was busy as hell. The entire train journey was packed with tourists, travellers and shoppers, all looking for their piece of the action in the English capital. Above ground, standing on the train, we gazed at the sights of the Canary Wharf tower, the Post Office Tower and the remarkable sight of the city in its midday sunny glory. We had high hopes.

            It did not get any easier on Oxford Street. It was the painting Bubble all over again. To be fair, any other day would have been the same. Finding Ethan in this hustle and bustle would have been impossible.

            But he was at the cafeteria; it was still possible. We kept telling each other that the whole time.

When we finally reached the cafeteria, it was as busy as could be expected. It still felt as homely as it always did, except the fireplace was switched off because of the lovely weather that England was experiencing. Both the two tills available at the front counter were smothered with customers as they stood patiently in line to be served. It amused me; as lovely and warm as the weather is, people always find a need to sip a hot cup of coffee.

            But we were not there for the coffee.

            We twisted our necks either side, looking for him. The obvious place was the window where the painting had shown him to be, staring out at Oxford Street with a patient mindful expression.

            We saw nothing. We heard nobody call our names in a joyful manner. No matter how many times we called his name across the cafeteria, there was no reply.

            Ethan was not there.

            Laura cried. I nearly cried, biting back the emotion to be strong for my wife. She deserved my support through what she had been through. It was heart-breaking.

            I sat her down at an empty table and went to order two strawberry frappuccinos – I thought a mushy ice drink might help calm her down. After ordering I went back to the table and placed it under her nose, as she eagerly watched the door like a tiger waiting for its prey.

            She stared blankly at the frappuccino for a minute or two before deciding to grasp it and begin sipping it gently. It gave her brain freeze after a while. She always gets brain freeze from stuff like this. It was one of those stupid insignificant characteristics that I loved about her.

            After we had both finished our drinks we hesitated to leave. It had been nearly half an hour since we arrived in the café and not once had we seen a recognisable face.

            I sighed. Leaving felt like it would be an easy ending, a way to attempt to move on and forget the reason why we came here. It would make the last few weeks a completely pointless venture. Not so much for me, but for Laura. It would hurt her if we left now.

            But we did not leave. Not yet.

            As I thought about what I could do to take her mind off the situation – perhaps a bit of London sightseeing – a hand came out of nowhere and placed an object upon the table in front of Laura. I did not look up at first; I was transfixed on the shiny item that had just been brought to our attention.

            I smiled at it.

            Laura had not noticed it at first; her eyes were shut with fatigue.

            I called her name. She looked at me and then at the object placed in front of her. She did not see the man standing behind her.

            In front of her was a beautiful white quartz crystal, its gleaming surface elegantly changing the surrounding light into sparkles of colour. It sat neatly in a small brown open jewellery box padded with red linen.

            Laura picked it up, carefully examining each pinnacle and surface with intriguing detail.

            She looked at me. She thought I had bought it.

            ‘Did you…?’ she started, but then the realisation placed its fingers upon her shoulders.

            He spoke.

‘Not a dark colour in sight.’

Laura instantly turned around.

Her face painted a wonderful picture.