A pair of prying eyes
A little girl with ginger hair is drawing stars in the condensation on the bus window.
The woman in whose lap she sits is messaging someone.
A man called Seb, according to the name at the top of the screen.
If she’s texting in public, she’s taking the risk that someone might snoop.
And there’s nothing that her seatmate loves more than to snoop.
Who is this? the message says.
Her hands are frozen for a moment.
It’s Clara, she types. Do you really not have my number saved?
He takes a moment to respond. I was kidding.
Clara shakes her head, chews her lip. You’re up early, she types. What time is it in New York?
Ellipses appear, disappear again. I’m still adjusting, he says.
What are you doing there?
Still deciding that, too, he says. Maybe I’ll take up modelling again.
Because that went so well last time.
A delay, on Seb’s side. Then: Ha.
Clara taps out another message. You were always more of a musician than a model. She hesitates, then adds: To me. She deletes this last part.
He changes the subject. I finally saw your new film.
She rubs her brow. She types and deletes several things. Finally, she says: Oh god.
I liked it.
No you didn’t.
I did, he says.
That makes you the only one.
They’re just reviews, he says. Ignore them. A moment. Those same reviewers used to call me wooden.
Clara’s face is buried in her scarf, so it’s hard to see a reaction. She types out her response.
You were wooden.
Her thumb hovers over the screen for a while. Then, finally, she presses ‘send’.
…
She looks like she regrets what she’s written.
Eventually, he replies. I blame the director.
The woman looks stunned for a moment. Then she begins to smile, and she hides the smile in her scarf. Another text comes in. Another change of subject.
How’s Nora?
The woman types. Inquisitive. She pauses over her next message. She thinks you might be her dad.
Another pause.
…
Seb stops typing.
…
He starts again.
Why would she think that? he says. Then: Don’t answer. We’re not friends enough for that kind of chat.
The woman exhales. She narrows her eyes.
We’re friends, are we?
She sends the message. For a while, nothing.
Then,…
‘What are you doing?’ her daughter says, suddenly bored of the window.
‘No one,’ her mother replies. ‘I mean, nothing.’
She slips her phone into her pocket, still hiding a smile.