An Encounter

Septimus looked serene; his eyes were watery, and his heart slippery. His troubled mind did not seem all too cooperative with his unblemished inner self, and he just sat there, evoking a feeling of both awe and pity in the passer-bys, with his halo of floating despair and bits and pieces of clumsy silence above his head. He felt as if he had been yelling for hours, yet knew that he had not uttered a word for the past couple of days. Or maybe he had yelled, but the sound frequency of his voice was unrecognizable to his fellow humans. Was he even human? Certainly, the halo didn’t make him an angel; the halo doesn’t make the angel, Septimus thought. Besides, angels have golden halos, and his was sort of dirty blonde, murky, and it had an unsavory texture and an inappropriate weight- it was heavy, it was one heavy halo to own. Incidentally, it was also an invisible halo, because no one except he could see it; thus, it only had Septimus to victimize. He looked up. Oh, how the clouds stumbled in and assembled stupidly in the sky. Great, obese clouds. Dark and plump. Bumping into each other. Apologizing. Moving on and finding room.
“What is that above your head?”
Septimus turned. He was used to strangers talking to him, but never had someone taken notice of his notorious halo.
“Above my head?”
The woman looked confused. She looked around inquiringly, moving her eyes at a pace Septimus found hard to follow. She was wearing a long pajama, had huge eyes, enormous eye bags, not much of a hairstyle, but she was beautiful. And beautifully confused. She looked as if she had just miscalculated something very important; a miscalculation that could bring about the end of the world.
“The grass,” she whispered “it’s green.”
Septimus considered the possibility of her being an escapee from the asylum Dr.Bradshaw wanted him sent to.
“Is this Antarctica?”
“Regent’s Park.”
“Washington?”
“London.”
“London!?” she screamed. “How did I end up in London? Why are you intruding upon my hallucination?”
“Hallucination?”
“I was supposed to be sent to Antarctica. My travel agent, he promised.”
The woman seemed deeply disturbed by the fact that she had not, after all, landed on Antarctica. Septimus had never met such a woman before, and, although a little intimidated, decided to comfort her.
“Don’t worry Miss. London is an exciting place. I am sure you will have more fun here than you would on Antarctica,” Septimus continued, doubting his own words. “What’s so special about Antarctica anyway?”
“Everything is white there,” the woman said, “and there are no people, only snow. And Eskimos. And I can build an entire city just the way I want it to be. And,” she continued fervently, shaking from excitement, “I can have a baby there. I will be all by myself. Wonderfully alone.”
Septimus’s eyes widened; his halo felt heavy.
“May I come, too?”
“Ahem. You will have to arrange that with my travel agent. But I am quite sure you may join me,” she smiled her vague smile.
Septimus smiled as well. Two people in Regent’s Park, a man sitting down and a woman standing next to him, kept smiling at each other, finding each other, groping for recognition. There was something familiar about the man, she thought, and felt how he noticed there was something familiar about her as well.
“I will now sit beside you,” the woman said, very matter-of-factly. Such an awkward woman. Such a lonely heart.
“Harper Pitt.”
“Septimus Warren Smith.”
A handshake. Silence.
“I have emotional problems,” Harper broke the silence, which was not in the least awkward. “Actually, my husband thinks I have emotional problems. I don’t think I have any problems.”
“My wife thinks I am not sane,” Septimus joined her. “She takes me to this doctor, and he keeps telling her to send me away.”
“Why don’t you leave your wife?”
“Why don’t you leave your husband?”
“My husband is a homosexual.”
“My wife is Italian.”
Silence.
“I want one of those things over my head. It’d make me look special, so heavenly. Like a martyr.”
“Martyrs suffer on behalf of their causes,” Septimus said thoughtfully.
“What’s your cause?” she asked.
“Preserving,” answered Septimus. “What’s yours?”
“Searching,” she answered, smiling again. There was something so splendid about the way in which the woman formulated her responses, but at the same time another feeling would not let you admire it.
“What do you say that we continue our quests on Antarctica?” Harper stood up, “I think you might have a better chance at preserving there, don’t you think?”
“And you would have a broader searching area,” he added. “Besides, it’s easier to find something if everything else is white, isn’t it?”
“Agreed.”
Two people, holding hands, walked through Regent’s park in London, and headed south. They were two people who, although they had never met before, recognized each other and decided to embark on a journey. As the sun set and the light left London, two lone owners of two lonely hearts walked south, their haloes illuminating their path, making their way to Antarctica.