I was napping the other day ... in my daughter's room, since she's been away at a friend's for a few days and I told my husband I just wanted to be in a room with a little extra light from the window. We all know I was lying. I missed her. Anyway, I had a dream during my nap of a young woman with a secret and a man named Zinga from whom she seeks help. (That was his name in the dream and I just can't change it, because, well, his name is Zinga.)
If you know me, you know I hate to "work" and if I were to get paid to write, I'd probably hate to write. So I'm posting online as the story unfolds! Here's the first installment ... we'll see where it goes :) Please comment if you want ... it'll fuel my own thoughts for the story!
It won't have an official title until it's finished, but this is for my daughter, Macy Lauren.
Zinga
Zinga was sipping his third cup of coffee for the morning, trying to prepare for a day of work with no rest the night before. He’d never been able to sleep well during the routine electrical outages the housing management performed once a week. As he fueled up on the caffeine, he pushed his silvering hair out of his eyes and peered through the back glass door. His housing unit sat on a small hill that allowed him a view of the tree line about a hundred feet just beyond the fence of his yard. Sometimes he’d wander out on his days off of work; walking up to the woods, then taking a few more steps into the leafy darkness. He only cared about the peace and quiet. He didn't explore. He’d had enough of discovery in his forty-three years to make him feel much older.
Sliding back the industrial grade glass to step out into his patch of garden, he pulled his eyes away from the tree line and sat on the scrap of a wooden chair. He recalled the first time he saw the young woman appear out of the trees, recognizing her from their interaction, or lack thereof, when they happen to meet a few months ago at the mailbox unit. She was just leaving the mailboxes and made no acknowledgement that she noticed his presence at all. Zinga wouldn't have been bothered by that fact except that she smelled faintly of clean cotton – a scent he hadn't had the pleasure of enjoying for a long time and one that distinctly belonged to clothes freshly dried in a dryer. An odd occurrence, considering not many residents owned clothes dryers anymore. Most laundry was hand washed and line-dried these days. Because of his fascination with the fresh scent, he watched as she passed him with her head down and expected that she’d continue on without concern for him. She stopped after putting a few steps between them and turned her head slightly as if to check behind her, but she didn't look up.
Since that first encounter, he'd spent considerable effort to ascertain a pattern in her mailbox outings. He wanted to ask her about her walks into the trees, but after checking the mail a few times when he hoped she’d be there, he decided making the trip more than twice a day was just ... suspect. Plus, Zinga realized he was spending far more energy on such an activity as he’d spent on anything he'd anticipated in a long time, and she was never there when he went anyway. Although he entertained the idea of following her into the woods, he thought better of it. That wasn't the way he wanted to begin his first conversation with her, either. He could just see it now. On the off chance that she'd hear him approach and wouldn't bolt in a dead run, and if he was actually able to walk up close enough to speak to her, he’d need to explain that he only wanted to smell the fresh scent of clean cotton lingering on her clothes. Ridiculous. And he certainly wasn't going to ask her out to dinner after following her into the woods. Oh, how he missed the days of breaking the ice over email! Sighing, he rubbed the stubble on his chin and challenged himself to be content with the small relief he felt when he saw her appear out of the trees in her usual way. As far as he could tell she seemed in her element and at ease when he happened to see her sneak in from the forest a few times a week, mostly in the mornings before he left for work, which actually filled him with more questions instead of simple relief. Besides wondering what she's doing out there, another question comes to mind every time -- how does she find her way in the darkness just before dawn?
So at the mailbox yesterday, he was just as surprised to see her as she seemed startled to see anyone. Standing under the awning of the structure, pushing her hat down with one hand on top of her head as if it would fly away otherwise, she was craning her neck to look up as she read the announcement of the additional, unscheduled electrical test to be conducted that evening. Zinga was prepared with his key in hand as he stepped up and around from behind the mailboxes. She was caught off guard with his abrupt intrusion and she hopped back a little; her eyes darted all around with a need to check everything and everywhere until they finally met his in a silent gaze. They stood together on the steps, locked in a stare. The young woman held her breath until Zinga gave a slight nod of his head and reached his key to his box. Something inside told him to move slowly and show her he was only there for his mail. Because of the uniform he was required to wear for work, sometimes he was mistaken for one of The Keepers. But he couldn't understand why she’d have a need to worry about The Keepers. He glanced at the base of her slender neck covered in the single fold of a gray turtleneck sweater. Once she took a breath and he saw her chest rise again, he was able to finally turn his eyes away, but only to ease her discomfort. He much preferred to gaze at the beauty before him that could never be camouflaged in colorless gray.
Lost in thoughts of her crystalline eyes, he raised his coffee mug to his lips and wished he could advise her in making every effort to appear less startled over everyday interactions. It saddened him to think she may need to change anything about herself, even her most vulnerable expression. To him, in all of her startled beauty, he hoped she was one of those natural mysteries you only wanted to discover, and not feel a need to cover over. Even protecting her would be to cover over her. All of the sudden, Zinga was tired and the caffeine was useless. As he stood to go in and get ready for work, he glanced at the tree line and there she appeared once again.
With shaggy, golden wisps of hair gone awry, framing her face to her chin and desperately needing a wash and a hair brush, she quickly stepped through the trees into the open field separating the housing units from the forest. Looking around to ensure only typical daily activity was taking place, she slowed her pace to her usual walk with her head down and her hands folded under her chest. He had never seen her direct her eyes beyond the next step in front of her feet, save the one moment he happened upon her when she was reading the notice on the board above the mailboxes. Watching her look around amused Zinga until he remembered looking around wasn't one of her tendencies. As she tracked closer to the housing, he could tell she was wearing a dark overcoat but her hat was missing. If she was trying to blend in with her drab surroundings, she should at least wear that ugly hat, Zinga thought to himself. That one with the ear flaps so he wouldn't be forced to watch her wild, dancing locks fly around her head in what seemed to him a beautiful, blinding glow and then maybe he could just pretend she was some teen-age boy gone exploring in the woods instead of, if his suspicions were correct, Ol’ Evie’s only granddaughter. Crazy Ol’ Evie. Damn. Well, at least Evie’s granddaughter seemed her usual self today, except that she walked with her arms folded over the front of her coat instead of in her pockets. It was colder today than usual; maybe she needed the extra warmth. Suddenly Zinga felt the chill in the air and an uncomfortable ache in his chest. “It’s just cold,” he thought to himself as he walked inside, “I’m just cold.”
