Spirit Of The End

Stranger once more #3

Within the folder, I found a haphazard mix of .mp3 and .exe files accompanied by a plethora of folders, their names seemingly random—some just strings of numbers, others simple words.

Tour of France, Side, 022.1999, Ip Man.

I selected the one labeled "Side." Inside was an Excel file stripped of any meaningful name, dated with various entries. I opened it. A list of URLs greeted me, each dated, some highlighted in red.

I clicked on one at random: 06.02.2010. After a brief loading time, an image of a familiar street appeared. Squinting, I recognized it as the route I took to university. The street was bustling with people. Zooming in three times, I noticed a familiar figure. I winced.

Someone was staring at the camera. Blurry, but there he was—Leon, in deep blue shorts and an olive-green sport shirt, his hair a champagne blonde, more like beeline honey, long but not shoulder-length, a total nonchalant surfer look. This was Route 3 at the garden square. I knew it by the distinct tiles on the ground.

The dates each had four pictures. I quickly checked the second and third images. The camera angle shifted left—my left, at least. In the corner of the screen, something that looked fleshy. It seemed so odd, was that plumage?

I grimaced, closing the tabs hastily. The Excel file ended on 06.05.2010. There were more dates on top, but I didn't scroll enough to check the most recent date. I clicked on the last entry, but the screen remained black.

Returning to the document folder, I chose "022.1999." A file caught my eye: D.RED. It looked like a contract or agreement papers. I skimmed through it quickly. It mentioned the renovation of a floor damaged by flooding. The document went on to state, in bureaucratic jargon, that there was no need to fully decorate or finish a section of the building as it was marked for a future end of service. It seemed unofficial, maybe scanned, with some details obscured. The company's name was partially visible: Gr?? M??, and at the very end, ?.O.?.E. I couldn't find any dates, just the year. 2010.

I glanced at the time. I had spent more time than I realized. Hurrying, I closed all the open tabs and sank back onto my sad beige sofa. Uptight like a true Brit, I pulled my knitted comforter around me and settled in. As uncomfortable as ever. I felt my heart pumping and my eyes wide open.

::

He steps inside, juggling three bags of lemons and a smaller white one, but I can't tell what's inside. I brace myself, striving to appear as normal as possible.

"I'll need your help with this." His voice breaks the silence. I hurry to the door, relieving him of one of the bags, my gaze glued to the floor.

He sets down two lemon squeezers on the counter. I take one, placing a cutting board in front of me. "I already had one of those," I mention.

"It'll go faster if we both do it," he replies. I nod slowly, handing him a large bowl so he can soak the lemons. He grabs a soft small brush and swiftly begins scrubbing them.

I position myself at the cutting board, ready with the knife. I halve the lemons, placing them in another large hard plastic bowl to keep the water away from the furniture. He finishes washing the lemons and moves to the next task, pulling out two glass carafes.

Carefully, he lets the juice flow through a cooking funnel, filling the carafes without spilling a drop. The process is hypnotic. I continue with my task, the rhythm of slicing and squeezing almost meditative.

"I'll be able to leave in the next days, maybe tomorrow, maybe later," he says, breaking the silence.

Focused on the last lemons, I reply quietly, "I won't miss you."