Tangible Memories

It hadn’t changed much. In all honesty, it didn’t seem to have changed at all. It was a rather callous assertion that lent itself without any kindly offer of respite. It seemed, instead, that the entire city was rather hellbent on reminding him of the acute distaste he had experienced when first striding along the labyrinthine streets of questionable scents. Each attraction or café teaming with individuals who would sardonically reply in accented english, to his, admittedly, poor attempts at the deviously confusing local dialect. Since when did ordering an early morning coffee invite the scorn of a student aged barista? One of many, whose eyes near burst from their brow with rolling disdain, perched atop the lofty heights of culturally erected Parisian pedestals. Since when did fumbling attempts at a second language inspire such disheartening retort?

It had been far more tolerable the first time. When he hadn’t been alone. Amidst an entire populace who had seemed to resent their interest in the touristic, honeymoon pilgrimage to the ‘City of Love’, it was a sole smile that rested his poorly veiled resentment. That dazzling grin which redirected unjust derision as the proverbial water off a duck’s back. It was the same one she had worn on the day of their ceremony among placid willows. The same she had worn when stepping through the door of a newly purchased cottage, beset on all sides by roses of a heart stealing scarlet. The same smile worn, draped in a gown of soft blue, atop a hospital bed, when they had last said farewell. And it was the same one worn forever more within that developed photograph, held now in place by pinched fingers, by he who still drew lonely breath.

Not far from where he stood, they had laughed while walking in the comforting unison of linked arms, after he had chorused his subjective distaste of the city that fell far short of Instagram Reels’ misleading boasts. She had goaded him for his cynical outlook, though it never diminished that smile. How he longed to hear her gently mock him for such trivial sentiments, even if it were a mere singular moment more. He had truely meant it, though it may have been semi-disguised as jest, when he decreed that he would never set foot in Paris again. But fates do not allow mortal words to sway their plans, no matter how much resolve is slathered upon their fleeting syllables. And it was their cruel ways that led him there once again. Feet planted upon pavement that shared its crowded space with a looming structure of riveted steel, ever sought by lovers, and those who dream of love, and now, he, who was trying so very hard to remember it.

The tower’s nearest corner perfectly aligned with its printed counterpart, so seamlessly did it fit. Edges of a glossed ink moment blending tragically with a present bereft of company so painfully missed. His outstretched arm wavered, an acceptance of defeat urging it to fall away. A sallow face followed the descent, a weary heart, also. He had not known what he rightly expected, traversing continents to find himself searching hard into that photo, in the place it had been taken. The resurgence of a forgotten memory which had once filled him with a now wayward joy, perhaps? A more vivid recollection of her laughter at an appalling joke, or the sound of her delicate breath, nestled close to his chest while far off in sleep’s cradling mirth. He had just hoped that being there, in that place, something out of the now ordinary melancholy would emerge to disrupt its constancy. Some abstract acceptance which the countless happy endings in romantic dramas so often alluded to. But downcast eyes that surveyed the chinos, shirt, and distasteful shoes which found themselves both within the photo, and out, closed to the release of defeated exhalations. It had been a fool’s errand, and he did feel the fool.

“S’cuse us, want me to hold that for you?”

So lost was he within a self-deprecating haze, that the kindly query almost passed ignored. Nearly convinced the cockney twanged words were directed at someone else, a polite gesture for another of the swollen multitude that milled about between flashing cameras, and swindling vendors, his head was sluggish in swivelling answer.

“Just... if... well, you know. If you wanted is all.”

The stout fellow that met his gaze fit well the accent, wrapped tight in a faded coat coloured by decades of use. Porous nose and cheeks, left bulbous and crimson by untreated rosacea, were framed between a low sitting cap, and a West Ham scarf long degraded at its edges. It all moulded rather neatly into an early Guy Ritchie film visage, one in which his monicker would run close to something akin to, if not precisely, ‘tough ol’ bastard’. What colour was revealed between the squinted slits beneath his brows, shared the azure hue of a clear winter sky, but their vibrancy was unable to hide an acute discomfort that lingered around his unblinking stare. It was the same discomfort which sat upon his withdrawn posture, with hands tucked deep into coat pockets. Ignoring the more rugged exterior, he seemed, for lack of better wording, rather shy.

He heeded a moment of awkward epiphany, noting that he hadn’t decided how to respond to the offer, while staring rather dumbly at the older gentleman. The confusion at the question stemmed from an inability to see why he would offer to hold the photograph of some lonesome soul in the first place? Betraying his thoughts, his eyes fell to the fluttering piece of glossed paper, only returning to answer the man upon deciding that two words were all he could manage, “... the photo?”

“No boy, your ‘and.” And upon seeing no recognition of the plainly delivered sarcasm, and maybe a touch of fear that a hand might indeed be offered, the man continued hurriedly, “Yes, the bloomin’ pho’ograph, so you can stand where youse was in it... You don’t ‘ave to, mind, it’s just what I do.”

Understanding finally made its way to his mind’s centre stage, promptly barging aside the previous puzzlement as to why this stranger had offered to hold his hand. The exchange thus far hadn’t exactly been the pinnacle of cognitive function, not by a long stretch, but he fumbled out a few noises that attempted to form words of assent. A sluggish arm made a confused, jerking journey to offer up his hand, ensuring it was the one with the photograph still pinched between its fingers.

Taking it, before gently shooing him away with the same motion one would dismiss a fly, the old man took his position in the vacated place where the photo had been captured. He held it outward, both hands positioning themselves at vertically opposing corners, one squinting eye closed tight. He adjusted the photograph, shook his head, shuffled about. His tongue made a strange appearance every few seconds, when the strain of concentration seemed to bother him, until, seemingly content, he spoke, “Right, there we are. Spot on. Now, you move back... yeah, that’s it. Now, left... left, a touch more... touch more. Righto boy, beau’iful, spot on.”

He halted on the mark, and the old man nodded his approval. The younger of the odd pairing stood, hands hung fidgeting by his sides, with the disconcerting sensation of having no idea what he was meant to do next. He tried to avoid the expectant gaze that lingered upon him, urging him to proceed with whatever tradition he had just wordlessly agreed to partake in. Fortunately, his hesitation spoke for him, and was answered promptly, “C’mon boy, you look nothing like the pho’o! Chin up... shoulders too, arm ‘igh ‘round her, show us them teeth... that’s it. Now, what would you say to her, if that smile o’ hers was beamin’ up at you right now?”

That last question had caught him off guard. It had a jarring impact that seemed to resonate from his chest outwards, making him falter a little in his mimicking stance. It wasn’t so much the acknowledgement that she wasn’t there, that particular sensation had become just as uncomfortably commonplace as a frigid breeze on exposed skin, or socks still damp from the laundry. No, his discomfort came from the simple fact that he didn’t know what he would say. Not at all lost for words, it was quite the opposite. There was just such an extensive list of things that he could’ve said if, indeed, she were smiling up at him.

He could remember it all. The lingering taste of assorted wines they’d enthusiastically indulged in before they had decided to brave the tower’s crowds. The weight of her leaning in close, interlocking fingers with the hand that fell over her shoulder. The smell of that horrid perfume he had bought. The one he knew she only wore because he had gifted it to her. He remembered the nasally word shouted by the boy who had offered his services for an ungodly amount of euros, that preceded the flash of a battered film camera. The birth of that tangible moment.

The one held now in the grips of an old man who wanted him to speak words that felt far too numerous to even begin considering.

His breath drew slow through his nose as he looked skyward, searching for a needle amongst needles. What would he have told her? ‘I miss you’? But he said that every day. ‘I love you, still, after all this time’? Or maybe, ‘not a day goes by that I don’t wake up to the large empty portion of the bed you always stole in your sleep, wishing you were there to steal it’? He didn't understand why it was so hard to choose. All had their merits, all had their truths. They just didn’t seem fitting.

What did leave his lips, after some further pondering, was nothing so poetic. But it was something he felt she would’ve liked to hear, “I got that job you always told me I’d be good at... and, you were right, of course. Oh, and I went to your brother’s eighteenth before I left... it was a really good night. He can finish a beer, like... scarily fast. You would’ve been proud. We talked about you for a while, bloody hell, he misses you... I mean, I... we... all...”

The final words became stuck to a prickling sensation in the back of his throat. He sniffed into the sleeve of his free arm, coughing as he did, trying to dislodge the unwanted blockage. When he met the knowing gaze of the old man, he let out a halfway laugh, “Sorry... that caught me off guard.”

“You’re alright lad, she would’ve loved it, I’m sure of it. You got anythin’ else?”

“Honestly, mate, I don’t think I’d make it too much further before I end up a mess, so I might just leave it there.” He removed himself from the spot they had shared all those years ago, to retrieve the photo. Upon its return, he stuck out his hand, “Cheers. Name’s Will.”

“A pleasure, Will. Gav,” He replied with a gentle nod, accepting the gesture with a firm, reciprocating shake.

“Well, Gav, have you got a photo? So I can return the favour?”

Another nod of Gav’s low-lying cap affirmed, while an arm found its way into a pocket. When it rejoined them, a bundle came too, held tight together by a hairband. Gav began flicking through the collection, calloused fingers showing each individual photograph a most endearing delicacy, until the one sought presented itself. Removing it with that same reverence, the photo exchanged hands, and Will found himself staring at another tangible moment. One so similar to his own. He nearly laughed out loud in astounded delight when his eyes finally registered a familiar face, feeling a little guilty as he quashed its advance. It was indeed Gav, most certainly, but a version not as burdened by weighted years. His skin was unblemished, with laugh lines only barely beginning to reveal themselves upon a balding head. Above a pristine West Ham scarf, eyes, the same hue as a clear winter sky, were opened horrifyingly wide. His tongue was out in the open air, looking as if he had been roaring a war cry. A woman stood beside him, likewise brandishing an out stretched tongue above a matching scarf. She had unruly copper hair, tied tight together in a side bun, a porcelain skinned face held wide eyes of mischievous emerald. Two sneaky fingers stuck up from behind her head, in that timeless gesture that children so often adore.

“‘Aven’t aged a day, ‘ave I, Will?”

Adjusting his stare to find the whereabouts of the deadpan statement was all it took. Will, didn’t stand a chance. Whatever politeness had beaten back a surprised laugh at the recognition of a youthful Gav, was rendered utterly helpless when faced with the current variation. Just as Will had smiled, and raised his arm around the recollection of dear company, Gav had forgone his cap, allowing ambient light to reflect off a hairless scalp. Neglected muscles fought hard to keep the wrinkled brow upward, revealing preternaturally wide eyes. His tongue was out, just as enthusiastically as it was in the photo. And his arm was up, two fingers held high behind a head that now existed only in gloss print.

Will let out a bewildered guffaw at the sight, he simply couldn’t help it. He did find himself concerned that he was being terribly rude, but that notion was silenced by a barking laugh, followed by words feigning insult, “That bad, is it? Y’know, when I had a full head of ‘air, they said I looked like a proper English Brad Pitt, they did. Ellie, dearest, this is my newly met colonial friend, Will. Not a bad fella, reminds me a bit o’ myself. Not as handsome, though. Now, where was I... That’s right, the ‘ammers lost... again, I’ve nearly ‘ad enough of their shite, few more years of it, and I’ll start following rugby bloody union instead. And you remember old Jack, yeah? Well, I got a right ol’ tale to tell you ‘bout him, and a runaway pumpkin. I’ll keep you in suspense though, just ‘til I get to the fountain.”

Will stood smiling at the old man, who, for just a few moments, seemed to shed some of those years. His eyes were alight with a youthful glint, arms thrown about with descriptive flair. Even at the mention of his football club’s poor form, he beamed a wholesome visage. Will could nearly envision a copper haired Ellie standing before him, laughing melodically along with the tangent, or becoming righteously annoyed at being so teased by a withheld tale involving a runaway pumpkin. Will’s smile shifted slightly, lips falling together to conceal his teeth. It was still a grin, one couldn’t help it after bearing witness to the old man’s fleeting transformation. But it bore with it the understanding of what had transpired to bring this whole interaction into being. The heartache with which he was so familiar, born of farewells to people who were meant to forever be by your side. Vague recollections of unanswered wishes, pleaded to deaf gods amongst drunken nights. The tidal loneliness. The emptiness.

He felt the photograph pulled free from his grip. Gav placed it neatly back into the exact position he had pulled it, ever cautious not to crease the paper. The mouth that had so recently parted to reveal an extended tongue, and spout laughing words to memories’ wayward ears, now formed a mirroring grin to Will’s own. But they were still smiles, no matter how burdened by silent longing. Into his own pocket he reached, retrieving a similar assortment of those glossed moments of time long passed. He searched through them, until one showed a pair of contented lovers sat upon the edge of a fountain, “You wouldn’t happen to be heading to this fountain, would you, Gav? I think Jane and myself are both pretty interested by this supposed tale of Jack, and his runaway pumpkin.”