Sole-Mates
I have always believed that something transcends this usual mortal coil when two soul-mates are separated. The longer they are apart, two hearts pulsating in corners of the globe unbeknown to any of them, they start to mimic each other’s actions. For me, it’s a sign that the universe is pulling them together. That unless they rush into each other’s arms immediately, these small quirks in their daily lives become a mirror in which they stay connected. Because no matter their class, job or country, they need to have something tangible – rooted to their subconscious – until they are entwined as lovers again.
At least, this is the thought that rushes to me when I immediately step into a puddle. The wet, murky water soaks into my ballet inspired shoes and right to the bone of my foot. I sigh away the cold dampness that now squelches instead of thuds the pavement. Note to self, when entering the torrential downpour, one must invest in a waterproof (albeit stylish) boot rather than the knock off pretty shoe that now has faded the floral pattern into brown (and I must take better care in realising that sale shoes are probably at a lower price because they are the most inconvenient with the weather). To amuse myself and this stomach churning excitement I have, I think of unnecessary fluff pieces and platitudes that are somehow warming up my mind, set to whatever thudding yet appropriate tune that mimics my heart right now. And if that is Everyday by High School Musical, then so be it.
The grip of “proper English weather” is weeding out the weaklings (i.e the tourists) as I power down Oxford Street. The illuminations of Christmas dangle above reminding me just how shallow my pockets are and how far I have to stretch the contents. As people dither around shop openings, producing large amounts of smokes, and with maps that are large enough to cover pavements (in this day and age where all you effectively need is a phone,) I weave my way through them with a smirk. After all, when you have lived in London for as long as I have, you have to play games. My two favourites include The No Touching Game where you thud (or squelch) your way through the chattering lost clusters of humanity without ever making contact. Or the Skinny Takeover, where my robust and curvaceous body – that some may call fat – over takes a lean, mean coffee machine. That one is particularly my favourite because the wide eyed realisation that fat doesn’t necessarily mean slob looms over them as they quicken their pace to keep up. Keep up!
My mind is racing as you may already tell. You. I’m speaking directly to you now. My soul-mate, who if I predicted rightly, must be having the same thoughts after drowning a shoe like me today – God save their soles. I have been alone for so long, held by no one for so long and the cold caress of winter has me thinking about your non-existent embrace more than usual. I have implemented many faces over the years, singers and actors who have tickled at my lady parts many times before, in the role of who you may be. They’ve never held much of a grasp to be the one, filtering into obscurity after highly publicised weddings or birth announcements. Sometimes I wish they stuck around a little longer than their usual high turnover, I could see myself as a celebrity wife. And I am in this thought a little bit too much when I slam straight into the jackets and wafts of Joop that have collected around the entrance to Oxford Circus Station. I check. It’s five. And all the straggling poised and posed business people of London are trying to get home.
You’d have thought that all of this would have put me in the mood. The weather, the wet feet, the shit coloured shoes and now the crowd of people conjugating around Oxford Circus Station when I have people to go – places to see. No wait, places to go and people to see. Not even the narration in my mind is completely on point today. But I cannot help wondering on the twisting jovial buzz that bubbles in my stomach and my wandering mind that drifts into romantic fodder, so cheesy it fills the back page of Women’s Weekly Magazines and Fanfiction message boards. The wetness of my feet is making me think of you, my soul-mate – whomever you are – and I can’t help but wonder whether your foot is as drenched as mine, is your day as stressed as mine and are we listening to the same High School Musical soundtrack at the same time. Are we really all in this together?
The dithering collection of stressed business coats and tourists around the gates of underground hell aren’t enough to take me from my high. It’s been several weeks now and an impending bliss has drenched me with inescapable joys. I don’t know who or what will descend into my life to make it that little bit happier, I just know it’s coming soon. Could it be you? Are you currently stuck on the other side of Oxford Circus, in a similar position to mine and sopping with the glorious English weather with Troy Bolton telling you to get your head in the game?
There is a sudden surge of moments, just as the sweet aroma of street vendor waffles hits my nostrils making me wish I’d waited to munch on the softy chocolate gooey goodness and chortled at those in such urgency they’d rather mush their bodies together in the heated furtive dash home than take a second to appreciate the city around them. A city which was now bursting the damns above and was cascading the entire River Thames onto our heads whilst the streets were littered with the clueless and there was a soup and good television waiting for me like a loyal mistress …….Yeah….. I want to get home too.
The sea of bodies had started to ebb into a wave as we careful bounced down the stars in troop formation. As I reach the white station, it dissipates as water crashing onto the shore. I’m free to resume whatever gleeful hurrying home I had embarked upon before the cluster of people had stopped me. Except, in my haste, I have forgotten that my feet were glazed with the droplets of rain and my shoes were so lacking of grip that when placed in hurried motion onto a floor, like, say the right linoleum of Oxford Circus Station, I’d instantly glide like Torvill and Dean. Except less graceful. And more like a pig on ice. My bum falls straight to the floor, my shoe decides to escape. I can practically hear the “I’m free” as it launches into the air. Its impending getaway is halted by the face of a rather attractive young suited man.
When I say attractive, I truly mean it. My stomach has equally launched out of my body and disappeared entirely as I stare into his captivating glazed eyes, opal and divine. I glance and covet him, my gaze darting other his dimpled chubby cheeks, flushed in spirals of rose. I noticed how tall he was, slightly rotund as his shadowed simmered over to me. Ginger bits protruded in the brown of his beard, thick glasses that hid a happy twinkle in his eye as he sauntered over to clearly help me up despite the fact that it is London and it’s more worrying to see someone being scooped up into the arms of a stranger than someone, possibly dying (my bum feels as though it’s deceased), sprawled upon the floor. I feel my skirt above my waist and pull it down timidly. He looms over me.
“Oh hey,” he says reaching for my saturated shoe that had hit him squarely in the face. Despite the dripping muddy tears that were dashing down my face. He seems unalarmed that about two minutes ago, he’d seen my buttocks clothed in pink underwear and surprisingly see through black tights (which defeats the object of black tights). “We’re sole-mates.”
I look at him confused, entirely perplexed and what he just said dangles with my wondering shoe in front of me. As I clamber into some position that doesn’t make me look like a wanton women, sprawled and waiting for my master, I clock the blue plastic bag wrapped around his left foot. I lift myself up to face him, I realise that in the other hand, in similar blue plastic bag as his shoe and I can presume it was soaking from being plunged into a puddle.
As the piano intro delicately beings on the last remaining headphone in my ear, I hear “You Are The Music In Me.” Standing face to face with someone, our shoes now in our hands, at this moment may be aligned to be my sole-mate.