Interruptions
They not only created a volatile slipstream in their wake, but seemed to push the air particles ahead of them, in anticipation of their lightning passage, interrupting balanced air currents.
At first, there was only a vague sensation that something was approaching: a fine vibration of the atoms around, like when you are waiting for the train and you can feel it coming before you see it or hear it. The visitors of the shopping mall continued to do what they were doing -- eating with rather blank, zombied expressions in the ground-floor McDonalds, tugging small children down aisles between shelves of indifferent articles, standing on tiptoes to see better what was on the top shelves of the Starbucks pastry window next to the exit -- but at the same time, they acquired a listening air, the animal in them sniffing at the announcements of air turbulences. Then a sort of dull, indistinct thumping could be vaguely made out -- like a set of low, bass-level drums or the stomping of a herd of elephants somewhere at a distance.
Then suddenly, as if teleported from another reality, the first of the two flew into the scene, running for dear life with long strides, legs in a low crouch (closer to the ground for stability), "pedalling" so fast they were almost invisible. At his heels was the other, the pursuer, running with as much turbo power in his forward projecting body as the one fleeing. It felt like someone had opened the big doors at the far end of the shopping mall and let in a hurricane that swept down the mall in an unbroken line all the way to the other end gathering speed as it rolled on. The disruptive force of this 10-second violent interlude in the impassive shopping-mall afternoon was smashingly accentuated by the crash of a wine bottle that slipped (or was dropped) from the fingers of the one running ahead and shattered into a billion small pieces on the contact with the ground, leaving a dark-red bloody trail on the tiles, which seemed to have kept the runner's momentum and elongated forward, as if trying to run after him.
His pursuer was quick to react (adrenalin shooting up in a do-or-die situation sharpens all the reflexes), and in a long stretch of a jump cleared the flying projectile-shards and the spilling blood-wine, landing elastically just on the other side of the mess and continuing in the same breath to chase the one ahead. That one hit the double set of glass exit-doors first with an outstretched full hand and then in quick succession with the right shoulder with full force, and in the next second he was out on the street, his pursuer still in tow and possibly even closer at his heels since, being close behind, he didn't have to waste any time setting the doors in motion.
Inside, there was a half-freeze, like something out of The Matrix. A young couple, who were some 20 centimeters from this slipstream of powered action and the breaking bottle, stood motionless, jaws dropping above the flowing red stain on the tiles, she going "Eeeeeeeee" in slow-motion. Their bare legs (it was a hot, summer-announcing afternoon) were a stark contrast of softness and vulnerability against the jagged, razor-sharp pieces of glass that had landed at their feet, miraculously not touching them. Everyone had stopped dead in their tracks, watching, not chewing, not breathing, those walking in the opposite direction craning their necks backwards. When the two had bumped their way out onto the street, there was a second-long hiatus, then with a collective murmur and a few shaking heads, people went back to their impassive shopping-mall afternoon, the keen sensory awareness of this interruption fading with each passing instant.
Realizing I was gripping a stack of exams my students had just written and a red pen too tightly, I relaxed my hold on them and moved along with the others, light as a feather. We were returning, with relief perhaps, to our cocoons of safety where softly rounded contours of routine and comfort would soon make us forget again about such sharp edges and something rugged happening out there, in some other lives.
At first, there was only a vague sensation that something was approaching: a fine vibration of the atoms around, like when you are waiting for the train and you can feel it coming before you see it or hear it. The visitors of the shopping mall continued to do what they were doing -- eating with rather blank, zombied expressions in the ground-floor McDonalds, tugging small children down aisles between shelves of indifferent articles, standing on tiptoes to see better what was on the top shelves of the Starbucks pastry window next to the exit -- but at the same time, they acquired a listening air, the animal in them sniffing at the announcements of air turbulences. Then a sort of dull, indistinct thumping could be vaguely made out -- like a set of low, bass-level drums or the stomping of a herd of elephants somewhere at a distance.
Then suddenly, as if teleported from another reality, the first of the two flew into the scene, running for dear life with long strides, legs in a low crouch (closer to the ground for stability), "pedalling" so fast they were almost invisible. At his heels was the other, the pursuer, running with as much turbo power in his forward projecting body as the one fleeing. It felt like someone had opened the big doors at the far end of the shopping mall and let in a hurricane that swept down the mall in an unbroken line all the way to the other end gathering speed as it rolled on. The disruptive force of this 10-second violent interlude in the impassive shopping-mall afternoon was smashingly accentuated by the crash of a wine bottle that slipped (or was dropped) from the fingers of the one running ahead and shattered into a billion small pieces on the contact with the ground, leaving a dark-red bloody trail on the tiles, which seemed to have kept the runner's momentum and elongated forward, as if trying to run after him.
His pursuer was quick to react (adrenalin shooting up in a do-or-die situation sharpens all the reflexes), and in a long stretch of a jump cleared the flying projectile-shards and the spilling blood-wine, landing elastically just on the other side of the mess and continuing in the same breath to chase the one ahead. That one hit the double set of glass exit-doors first with an outstretched full hand and then in quick succession with the right shoulder with full force, and in the next second he was out on the street, his pursuer still in tow and possibly even closer at his heels since, being close behind, he didn't have to waste any time setting the doors in motion.
Inside, there was a half-freeze, like something out of The Matrix. A young couple, who were some 20 centimeters from this slipstream of powered action and the breaking bottle, stood motionless, jaws dropping above the flowing red stain on the tiles, she going "Eeeeeeeee" in slow-motion. Their bare legs (it was a hot, summer-announcing afternoon) were a stark contrast of softness and vulnerability against the jagged, razor-sharp pieces of glass that had landed at their feet, miraculously not touching them. Everyone had stopped dead in their tracks, watching, not chewing, not breathing, those walking in the opposite direction craning their necks backwards. When the two had bumped their way out onto the street, there was a second-long hiatus, then with a collective murmur and a few shaking heads, people went back to their impassive shopping-mall afternoon, the keen sensory awareness of this interruption fading with each passing instant.
Realizing I was gripping a stack of exams my students had just written and a red pen too tightly, I relaxed my hold on them and moved along with the others, light as a feather. We were returning, with relief perhaps, to our cocoons of safety where softly rounded contours of routine and comfort would soon make us forget again about such sharp edges and something rugged happening out there, in some other lives.
posted by Tijana | 1:03 AM
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