Pieces of Light by Ella M. Kaye
Rated 16+. All Rights Reserved.
~ One ~
Rated 16+. All Rights Reserved.
~ One ~
Fillan tried to put his mind off the girl and think only about the trail he was hiking, but thoughts of Ireland streamed back into his soul as he looked out over the fauna of Cape Cod. And however he tried, the girl’s face kept creeping back into the forefront. Had she come home yet? Had she bothered to notice he was away? He had left Ireland without word to her. It was fair, Fillan told himself, since she left him first. Months ago. She needed something new and time to figure herself out, she told him, with luggage in hand as she walked out his door. How he hated that phrase. Fillan knew he’d rolled his eyes when she said it, which helped nothing at all, of course, but he hated that phrase.
Time to figure yourself out. What was that, anyway? You were who you were, were you not? What was to figure out? How insipid did you have to be to not know, toward your mid twenties, who in the hell you were yet? Or at least think you knew. What twenty-something didn’t think he had himself, or herself, all figured out?
An excuse, of course. She could have simply come straight out and said, “Fillan, you are boring me to tears and I have to leave you now.” He could respect that.
Turning the corner of the wood plank raised path out along the Cape, he got a nice glimpse of the Atlantic through the trees and other fauna, and paused, leaning his forearms on the weathered-wood railing, and watched seagulls dip and rise and make all kinds of racket. Noisy, raucous birds. He liked them about as much as he liked the figure yourself out phrase. Scavengers. Bullies, of sorts. He liked small quieter birds. He especially liked ducks. Fillan had no particular reason for his duck interest, other than because they were water creatures, but also air creatures. He liked the mix. And they were calm, peaceful.
Fillan liked calm. It was boring, he supposed, to be so infatuated with calm and quiet. She was right, whether or not she had said outright he was boring. The hint was there. Far more than a hint was her objection to his work.
“Get a real job, Fillan, would you now? What kind of a job is teaching outdated dances to elderly women who are there only to enjoy cozying up to braw young men who are paid to be nice to them? ’Tis a boy’s job,” she’d said. “Get a man’s job. It would be right good for you.”
With a sigh and rolled eyes – and why not, since she couldn’t see it – he continued his walk-jog along the boardwalk. This path was less busy than many he had taken since arriving in Massachusetts only a couple of weeks earlier. It was nice, he supposed, to see so many outside in the fresh air using the plentiful paths along or near to the coast. Still, when he’d thought of coming to this little point on the very top edge of what was nearly an island, Fillan hadn’t expected so many people to be swarming. It didn’t bother him, necessarily, but he had come to clear his head. And then again, maybe the mix of people in crowds would give him enough varied perspective to see things differently.
Maybe later he would go into the heart of Provincetown and wander the sidewalks and pay more attention to the vibrant mix of Americans crowding the place. He could stop into some of the shops, as well, to see what he could find that was not too touristy but reminiscent of Cape Cod to take back to his family at the end of the summer when real life would continue, when he’d have to make the choice to contact her again or not, to continue his “boy’s job” or change his path. Granted, his dancing didn’t pay well. It had taken him forever to earn plane fare to the States to jump on the opportunity to teach under a work exchange program. It was a vacation, by all rights, but he was still teaching, only American old ladies instead of Irish old ladies.
Well, but they weren’t so much old. Many younger women were coming to ballroom dance recently. That show on the telly, Fillan supposed. He hadn’t watched it. The idea of making a contest show out of ballroom dancing and hyping it up with lights and cheering and all sorts of flashing and colorful noise annoyed him. Fillan bet those dancers made good money, though, with their for-television “boy job,” but then, they were getting hand-picked celebrity students, not regular people who sometimes didn’t know their right foot from their left.
If it was bringing people into ballroom again, though, it couldn’t be all bad. It wasn’t like he would be fool enough to turn it down himself if it was offered. Fillan supposed the girl would change her tune quick as anything if he was teaching on telly rather than in a small studio. What would it take to be a well-paid pro? Not that it mattered in the slightest since he was only in the States for the two and nearly three months of his work exchange.
He would return at some point, as vacation only, so he could travel farther into the country rather than being held on its outskirts where the first of the colonists had landed. It was a good place to begin, to start again, so he told himself.
If he wanted to start again, that was. Maybe he did not. Maybe all he needed was the impetus to remain on his own path, in his own way, whatever the girl said, whatever his father said. Why should he not? Unlike the girl, he knew right well who he was and what he wanted. She could deal with him or she couldn’t.
With a shrug, and a brush at a little flying creature to push it from his face – how did Americans deal with the billions of little pests without going crazy? – Fillan increased his fast walk, turning it into a full jog. She could deal with him, though, if he would only get a real job and step up only a rung or two more into adulthood. So she said. The thing was, he was happy with himself as he was. He was less happy since she had left him. There was truth to it, and she knew he would be sorry to not see her each night. He was sorry. He missed her plenty well. Still, would having her make up for the changes he would have to make to have her?
Could be it would.
How did he figure it out without trying it? If he tried it, how could he go back again if it didn’t?
Time to figure yourself out. What was that, anyway? You were who you were, were you not? What was to figure out? How insipid did you have to be to not know, toward your mid twenties, who in the hell you were yet? Or at least think you knew. What twenty-something didn’t think he had himself, or herself, all figured out?
An excuse, of course. She could have simply come straight out and said, “Fillan, you are boring me to tears and I have to leave you now.” He could respect that.
Turning the corner of the wood plank raised path out along the Cape, he got a nice glimpse of the Atlantic through the trees and other fauna, and paused, leaning his forearms on the weathered-wood railing, and watched seagulls dip and rise and make all kinds of racket. Noisy, raucous birds. He liked them about as much as he liked the figure yourself out phrase. Scavengers. Bullies, of sorts. He liked small quieter birds. He especially liked ducks. Fillan had no particular reason for his duck interest, other than because they were water creatures, but also air creatures. He liked the mix. And they were calm, peaceful.
Fillan liked calm. It was boring, he supposed, to be so infatuated with calm and quiet. She was right, whether or not she had said outright he was boring. The hint was there. Far more than a hint was her objection to his work.
“Get a real job, Fillan, would you now? What kind of a job is teaching outdated dances to elderly women who are there only to enjoy cozying up to braw young men who are paid to be nice to them? ’Tis a boy’s job,” she’d said. “Get a man’s job. It would be right good for you.”
With a sigh and rolled eyes – and why not, since she couldn’t see it – he continued his walk-jog along the boardwalk. This path was less busy than many he had taken since arriving in Massachusetts only a couple of weeks earlier. It was nice, he supposed, to see so many outside in the fresh air using the plentiful paths along or near to the coast. Still, when he’d thought of coming to this little point on the very top edge of what was nearly an island, Fillan hadn’t expected so many people to be swarming. It didn’t bother him, necessarily, but he had come to clear his head. And then again, maybe the mix of people in crowds would give him enough varied perspective to see things differently.
Maybe later he would go into the heart of Provincetown and wander the sidewalks and pay more attention to the vibrant mix of Americans crowding the place. He could stop into some of the shops, as well, to see what he could find that was not too touristy but reminiscent of Cape Cod to take back to his family at the end of the summer when real life would continue, when he’d have to make the choice to contact her again or not, to continue his “boy’s job” or change his path. Granted, his dancing didn’t pay well. It had taken him forever to earn plane fare to the States to jump on the opportunity to teach under a work exchange program. It was a vacation, by all rights, but he was still teaching, only American old ladies instead of Irish old ladies.
Well, but they weren’t so much old. Many younger women were coming to ballroom dance recently. That show on the telly, Fillan supposed. He hadn’t watched it. The idea of making a contest show out of ballroom dancing and hyping it up with lights and cheering and all sorts of flashing and colorful noise annoyed him. Fillan bet those dancers made good money, though, with their for-television “boy job,” but then, they were getting hand-picked celebrity students, not regular people who sometimes didn’t know their right foot from their left.
If it was bringing people into ballroom again, though, it couldn’t be all bad. It wasn’t like he would be fool enough to turn it down himself if it was offered. Fillan supposed the girl would change her tune quick as anything if he was teaching on telly rather than in a small studio. What would it take to be a well-paid pro? Not that it mattered in the slightest since he was only in the States for the two and nearly three months of his work exchange.
He would return at some point, as vacation only, so he could travel farther into the country rather than being held on its outskirts where the first of the colonists had landed. It was a good place to begin, to start again, so he told himself.
If he wanted to start again, that was. Maybe he did not. Maybe all he needed was the impetus to remain on his own path, in his own way, whatever the girl said, whatever his father said. Why should he not? Unlike the girl, he knew right well who he was and what he wanted. She could deal with him or she couldn’t.
With a shrug, and a brush at a little flying creature to push it from his face – how did Americans deal with the billions of little pests without going crazy? – Fillan increased his fast walk, turning it into a full jog. She could deal with him, though, if he would only get a real job and step up only a rung or two more into adulthood. So she said. The thing was, he was happy with himself as he was. He was less happy since she had left him. There was truth to it, and she knew he would be sorry to not see her each night. He was sorry. He missed her plenty well. Still, would having her make up for the changes he would have to make to have her?
Could be it would.
How did he figure it out without trying it? If he tried it, how could he go back again if it didn’t?