Sulfur of Fireworks - Short Story

I sip my coffee as I wait for my profiteroles to arrive. I have been waiting for them more than I judge necessary, but I don’t feel like complaining or being bitter today. The day is being nice and I don’t want to ruin it.

I am in a small coffee shop that I discovered in one of my many walks through the city. I was told the little and hidden places are the best ones, and I agree with that. Except when they take forever to bring your food.

The profiteroles finally arrive, the apologetic face of the waiter instantly fading away as soon as he sees my smile. Don’t get used to it, friend. It is not a custom of mine to smile at strangers. Unless they bring me food.

I eat slowly, appreciating their flavor and the warmth of the coffee. It is black and bitter, the way I like it. The small coffee place is located in a street with a funny name not so far from downtown. I don’t think many people know this place. The advertisement is not very flashy, you would only find it if you knew what you were looking for.

Or if you were an observer, like myself. I am not good at many things, but the art of observing and taking notes of things nobody else sees is something I take pride on. I have discovered interesting and unknown places, I have taken great pictures and I have found money on the street. Not a lot, but enough to make me happy.

What called my attention as I was walking down the street was the music. I heard the pleasant melody, not very loud, and started looking for the source of it. It was a few meters ahead of me, a little place with the words "coffee and cakes" shyly written on the window.

I went in to find a cozy place, with nice sofas and a dark decoration, bookshelves filled with lots and lots of books, that somehow looked tidy and organized. I made a mental note to ask the owner how he or she managed that, for my tiny library would thank some cleaning and better management.

When I came in the waiter greeted me happily, giving the impression I was one of their first clients of the day. He guided me to a table at the far end of the shop, as I had asked. I sat comfortably as I read the menu and, though I was not hungry, I couldn’t miss the opportunity to try the profiteroles. I know this woman, she made me profiteroles once and they were the most awesome and tasty thing I've ever eaten. I still wait anxiously for the day she makes them again and kindly invites me over, like she always does.

The music fills the air as I think of what to do next. There are many interesting things to do downtown, though today I noticed more people than the usual, many of them gathered in the little square plaza, where a fountain with a gigantic fish on top of it was built, water coming from the fish's mouth. I don’t see anything nice about the fish, opposite from the rest of the city, for everybody who goes there try to get the better selfie to upload on their Instagram accounts.

I finish eating and the waiter asks if I'd like anything else, I thank him and ask for the check. It was cheaper than expected. That’s always good. I ask him if there's going to be any sort of event this evening, and discover there will be a fireworks show later. I hadn't planned watching fireworks today, but it sounded like fun. I could try.

Leaving the place, I walk to the square plaza downtown, people everywhere, taking pictures and buying snacks in the little stalls that are strategically located in every corner, there are not enough of them to annoy you and not want to come back to the square plaza ever again, but I would certainly not mind if some of them disappeared. (Oh, just let them be already!)

There is one empty wooden bench near the gym, and I rush to it before somebody else notices it. I sit in a snake charming position, taking out my notebook and a little pen from my pocket. This notebook is slightly smaller than the previous one, the cover is soft and it fits anywhere, making it a very convenient thing to carry around.

Half of it is already used, filled with sketches and drawing and phrases of every sort. I am glad I took the drawing course, it has improved the quality of my drawings more than I thought possible. So now I take the notebook with me and don't miss any opportunity to draw. I still write, but for that I mostly use my cellphone. It's not as nice and poetic as writing on a notebook, but it's surely more practical.

There is this girl not far from where I am, with an easel and some papers, pens and pencils. I start a sketch of her. After a few minutes I have something very close to a drawing in black and white. It looks pretty good, actually. I might be getting better at it.

When I raise my head from the paper she's looking right at me. I blush, maybe I should have asked permission to drawn her? I get up wanting to disappear from sign, and she gets up as well, walking on my direction with a piece of paper in hands. Not knowing what to do, I tear the little piece of paper from my notebook and hand it to her when she comes close to me. She smiles at it and hands me her piece of paper. She sketched me, sketching her. We look surprised and laugh. After exchanging a few words, I leave.

I walk around the plaza a bit more, looking for things to draw and lost money (It is not my fault people aren't careful with their belongings!). I see a tree that looks funny and sit on the floor to draw it. The ones around look at me as if I were crazy and whisper conspiratorially. I ignore them like I always do. Well, not always. Sometimes when I am in the mood and realize somebody is whispering I get up and threat to write something crazy about them with my powerful pen and handle it to my lawyer who studied in Harvard. It is always fun to observe their reactions, people never expect a sweet girl to say something like that.

The drawing is pretty decent, and as I work on some more details I notice a girl staring at me. She must be eight years old, still not corrupted by the cruelty and brainless conversations we are exposed to daily. She has blond hair and looks lovely. Her father is on her side, talking happily to the man next to him, not paying a lot of attention to the little girl.

She smiles at me. She wears a blue cotton dress and the balloon she holds is of one of the main character of the movie "Frozen". It wouldn't be surprising if her name were Elza. Or Ana. I get up and closer, kneeling down near her. The father notices but doesn’t say anything. After all, a girl that looks so sweet with a t shirt saying "Unicorns don’t believe in humans either" can't be harmful, right? If only they knew...

I ask for the little girl's name. She's Ana. (I knew it!) I write down her name on the tree sketch I made and give it to her. She smiles at me, reminding me of myself when I was that age, smiling at everybody but never saying anything more than my name. Sometimes not even my name, depending on the person's face. She gives her father the balloon as she appreciates the drawing. I think she liked it, because she keeps on looking at it and smiling. I leave her, looking back after I am a little distant to see if she is still smiling. She is.

The poster glued to the building wall announces the pyrotechnics, starting in less than three hours. I've got enough time to look for a nice spot to watch it, without people around. I find the perfect place not so near the plaza. There is this building that is under construction. There are no doors or windows yet, the walls are bare and the building materials are on the concrete floor. The fence was quickly built, not very efficient. If it can't stop a girl like me to getting in the building it can't stop anybody.

It is very cold inside, and I am once again glad for the coat I wear. It is uncomfortable when I am walking, but always useful when I stop. It is very windy at this time of the year, and I got sick three times already. I am not giving the virus another change.

The light bulbs have been installed already, and I turn on the switch to see if there is electricity. Yes, it's working. I wonder what would happen if I left them on. No, it would be very mean. It must be expensive enough already to finance a construction, I won't give them more expenses. The stairs are on the far end of the building, I climb them.

The second floor is empty and very dirty. I smell cement and lime, the scent following me everywhere until I reach the fifth floor. The opening for the windows are huge, and I have a nice view of the houses and the plaza ahead of me. This floor seems to be where they store the other materials. I see power plugs and sockets, cinder blocks, wires, ropes and cables. They're probably stored there to avoid theft. Pointless. I could steal everything and nobody would see a thing. Maybe I should leave a note where I point how flawed is their security system and what they could do to improve it. But that would mean the place wouldn't be available for watching the fireworks anymore, and I was starting to like that place.

I find a plastic chair on the corner, heavy bags sitting on it. I knew trying to move the bags would cause me backache, so I just bend the chair forward a little and the bags fall on the floor. Dust rises and the room is filled with white fog, I have to close my eyes and breathe through my nose for a couple of minutes, already thinking about how awful my clothes will look.

I get the chair and move it near the window. It is comfortable enough, and I wait. Taking my notebook once again, I make drawings of houses, trees and heavy bags. The music I heard at the coffee is stuck in my head, and I write down the lyrics to look for the name of the song later.

As I wait, I decide to stretch a little, my bones making cracking sounds that would certainly worry people who don't know about the condition of my back. It used to be worse though. Far worse. My knees also crack, and I am worried for them. I have been walking a lot lately and not resting properly, forcing them to work longer than they can handle. I make a promise to apply cream and give them a break as soon as I get home.

Evening settles in quickly, and I can feel the expectation in the air, even being far from the plaza. It is not a lot of time until the hissing sound is heard. There is cry of joy coming from the plaza, and I can see the first explosion very well. Then there's the second. And third. And fourth.

I observe the missiles exploding in a very controlled way with bangs and bursts of brightly colored light thinking about chemistry and physics. (Seriously, who thinks about that while watching fireworks?) I found out last week that there are different names for the different types of fireworks (it's obvious, no?), like  rockets, Catherine wheels, and so on, having one or multiple effects, each one with amazing displays once they are safely high in the air.

As the show goes on, I think about the chemical reactions, how the right formula is able to put up a show of color and loud sounds, just to fade away into the dark of the night seconds after that. The words come to my mind softly, and I write them down before they disappear. Words, like fireworks, fade away quickly, and once they're gone is hard to have them back. I learnt some techniques to make it easier to retrieve the words and thoughts lost into the vastness of my brains, and it has been very useful for me as a writer.

A few more minutes, and the last firework explodes in the sky. After that, I can hear people talking, children crying and dogs winning in the distance. Poor dogs, they suffer because of the fireworks. The multitude disperse, the families gathering to go home together. I should go as well, it gets dark quick in summer, and I don’t like walking at night by myself.

Thinking about putting the chair back, I decide to just leave it there near the window, I wouldn't be able to put the bags back anyway. I go downstairs and check before I leave the building. The less people seeing me leaving the better. I'd rather stay out of the spotlight. Always.

I walk back the same path I took to get to the building, passing the plaza and up the street with fresh painted houses and little bushes trimmed to look like horses, elephants (they got very close, I'll have to admit) and other forms that I don't think have names yet.

The road back home is long, but I don't mind. I am used to walking and I enjoy it, feeling the cool wind against my hair, playing with it. I'd have many nice things to tell when I arrived. Then, still seeing the dazzling magic of the psychedelic aerial displays and hearing their sounds on my head as if they were a melody, I hurry to be back home soon.