Hell's Kitchen Mirage

He hopes desperately she is not a trick of the eyes, for this summer heat is so miserable, he doesn’t know if he could survive if she were merely that, a trick.

Despite the sweltering heat, she sits perched on a windowsill, bare feet hanging over the edge. For his own sake, her eyes are closed as she relaxes, so he won’t be caught staring. The bells and beads lining the jewelry wrapped around her tanned ankles and dripping off the edge of her skirt sing and chime in the scorching breeze. It has been two weeks since she moved into the tenement building across the way, and he has sought out that very symphony every day.

He should leave her alone, his ma so much as told him exactly that. His ma —mild and meek as she was— claimed she was a witch. 

“Ma, that’s medieval,” he’d tried to reason. 

She just popped him with a dishcloth, a warning, “Stay away from that scaldy, Alastar. Nothing but trouble with her kind.”

Alastar never heard his mother take such a tone about anyone. Despite the implication he could perish at his mothers hand —or worse— if he so much as breathed the same air as her, he finds himself stepping out of the shaded doorway he sat sweating in, and walking in her direction. No, not walking. There must be a rope tied to him, for he is unable to turn around. Perhaps it is the heat? All semblance of self control and good sense seem to be evaporating right from his head!

His worn boots land unevenly on the cobblestone street. Unfortunately, he is much too old to go barefoot. It would be so convenient, in this heat, to go without stockings and shoes. His younger sisters and brother must be faring far better than he is. 

Alastar does not realize he is directly in front of her until her eyes open —green and alive as a spring meadow—and fix right on his. He knows his dull in comparison, for they are merely the shade of a grey morning, before the sun comes up, and he almost begins to apologize. This heat! What it does to his thoughts! 

She holds up a dainty hand in front of her, and in the dark of the shade her eyes almost seem to glow like fireflies, “Hello,” she says sweetly. The bangles on her wrist chime and clang as they fall down her arm. 

Alastar opens his mouth, and then she smiles! Suddenly he loses all ability to communicate properly, and he worries his favors a gaping fish far too similarly. How embarrassing!

“Sorry!” He manages to blurt. 

Her brow creases, eyes narrow, “What for?”

Thankfully, Alastar’s voice has come back, “I didn’t mean to disturb you, I was only,”

He stops himself, what was he doing?

“Only saying hello,” he nods to her, and attempts to smile. 

She twists on her ledge, so she is completely turned towards him. The sun glitters against the pitch black ringlets falling past her shoulders. 

“Don’t apologize,” her smile! It illuminates against her bronze skin, “thank you for stopping. I have seen you, but have not been acquainted with you.” 

He gazes at her stupidly, silently. If she notices this, she says nothing. He must be ten different shades of scarlet —for both his blunders and this insufferable heat! The bells and beads ring as she swings her feet back and forth. 

“What is your name?”

“Alastar,” he takes a breath of boiling air, “Alastar O’Connor.” 

She nods, and he sees now she is not even sweating! What a puffy-faced mess he must be. 

“Alastar. I’ve never heard it before. Where is your family from?”

“My mother and father came here from England, but they both were born in Ireland.”

He would have assumed she knew that already, for that was the case of most of the families here. 

She meets his eyes again, “My name is Ivy. I have no surname.” 

Ivy, he ruminates on the fact she is lacking a surname for longer than he should. He runs a clammy hand through his drenched hair, hoping to wipe away the thought. 

“What about your family?”

Her eyes falter, and he leans forward ever so slightly, to do what he isn’t sure. So, he settles for leaning on the brick wall beside her, as if it were his intent all along. 

Ivy does not answer, but instead stands up and starts to ahead of him. She glances over her shoulder to him, gifts him a small smile, “Let’s sit in the shade, it might be cooler by the water.”

Alaster almost thinks he would follow her anywhere. 

They walk quietly —save for the pleasant musical of bells, beads, and bangles— to the edge of the riverbank, where he thanks the blistering heat for the lack of people milling about outside. If his mother caught wind of this, well, he doesn’t want to think about what would befall him then.

So, instead, he takes to watching Ivy as she gracefully steps up the grassy hill, and sits under a tree. He follows suit, instead stretching out on his back. 

“My mother was Spanish, my father French.”

This surprises Alastar, “Really?”

Ivy smiles, brilliant and almost proud, “Yes. They were gypsies.”

She starts to braid her hair, and he now sees the sweat on the back of her neck. He almost misses what she says. 

“Gypsies?”

Alastar repeats dumbly, trying to push down every warning and threat he’s ever been told.

Ivy seems to expect his reaction, and merely raises an eyebrow, “I can only imagine what you’ve been told about such people.” 

“I have heard very little.” Alastar knows he is a terrible liar, but he attempts to, anyway. 

Mist from the river drips across them as a harsh, burning wind forces it their direction. Finally! The mist is blessedly cool. 

Ivy twists her lips, and there is no doubt in his mind she knows what he said was false. Something clever and mischievous glints in her eyes, and she turns away from him to face the river.

“I suppose I must prove all the rumors untrue, then.”

Alastar hopes desperately this beautiful girl is no mirage, for he could not survive if she were merely that, fantastical and fleeting.