The Girl Who Hangs Around the Deli

There is something funny about my relationship with the girl who hangs out around the deli. We have no relationship at all; that's the funny part. I don't know her name, and I'm pretty sure she doesn't know mine either. I don't know where she lives or how old she is. Hell, I don't even know what her real hair color is. Sometimes it's as red as the fire trucks my dad drives. Sometimes it's a platinum blonde no one can look away from. Today it's as black as the night sky.

When I step out of the deli, holding my regular bottle of root beer, I find her in the same spot as always. She is standing near the garbage can, sporting her typical leather jacket and an unlit cigarette in her right hand. She turns in my direction, making our usual eye contact. I expect her to flash me a subtle smile like she generally does, but instead she frowns and takes a step in my direction.

"Do you happen to have a lighter?" she quietly asks. This is the first time I have ever heard her voice. It's soft, which I wouldn't have expected from such a tough looking girl.

I reach into my pocket and whip out a lighter. I'm not a smoker, but my friends and I are always making bonfires and I find myself carrying one around. When I hand it to her, she accepts it with a shaking hand. I admire the way she lights her cigarette with ease, the way her body looses up when she inhales the nicotine. She hands me the lighter back.

"Thanks," she says. Her dark outlined eyes dart toward the busy avenue in front of us. I notice the multiple holes in her clothes. I've never taken enough time to study her appearance, other than her endlessly changing hair color. Now I notice that everything she wears is tattered and her makeup is smearing down her delicate face. The most confusing thing about her is the tattoo on her ankle; an intricate pair of wings.

"You live around here?" I question.

She shrugs. "Not really."

I nod, though I still don't understand her. "Well, I have to get going. It's getting dark."

She sends me a sad smile. "Don't get on."

I am about to ask her what she means when she points behind me. I spin around to see the city bus I usually take home. Passengers are boarding; moms with babies, men in work suits, and other mindless teenagers like me. I turn back to face the girl, but when I do, she is gone. Even when I call out, no one responds.

I notice that the last passenger is getting on the bus, so I rush to catch it before it departs. Just as I am about to board, I stop myself at the door.

"Getting on?" the driver asks.

Hesitantly, I shake my head and he closes the door in front of me. I watch the bus speed away and begin an extensive walk home, wondering why I just listened to a complete stranger.

The next morning I wake up and drearily drag myself to the kitchen table. My father is reading the newspaper and the front headline catches my eye. When he is done reading, I snatch the paper and review the article, just to make sure I'm not going crazy.

I take the paper with me and run to the deli. Out of breath from the long distance, I approach the front counter where the owner is sorting out candy bars.

"What do you know about the girl who hangs around here?" I demand.

"What are you talking about?" he asks.

"There's a girl that stands outside this deli every day around 5 o' clock. She wears a crappy leather jacket and always has a cigarette in her hand."

"I'm sorry," he shakes his head. "But I don't know who that is."

A boy no older than me is stocking the shelves with boxes of cereal. He looks in my direction. "I work here every day, dude. I've never seen her."

Confused and irritated, I thank them anyway and walk outside. I pull the newspaper out of my back pocket and look it over one more time. I study the black and white photo of the demolished city bus, reared off the road and sinking into the river. I re-read the part where it says "no survivors" and feel my body start to quiver.

Like the passengers I used to ride the bus with, I never see the deli girl ever again.