Lady in White

Mal Delta

She finds you outside, shivering on the pavement outside the bar. The wind is promising snow, but you are not dressed for it; just a denim jacket and hands jammed into pockets, breath turning to steam on your tongue. An outsider would never know that you don’t smoke, or that you’re not smoking right now.

'I’m waiting for a friend,' you tell her. She has not yet spoken; she knew you would say this already.

'A cold place to wait,' she says. She is dressed as white as the oncoming snow, a long flowing dress that seems to command the wind. 

You shake your head, not seeming to register her. 'He’ll be here soon.'

The woman in white looks up and down the street. There are others waiting for her tonight, and she can stand to leave you shivering in the wait for your friend. 'A drink might warm you up.'

You shake your head, puffing out steam to heat your cheeks. She gives in then, offers you a nod and heads on her way.

You are standing in the same spot the next night, adorned with a snow-crusted beanie and fingerless gloves. Your fingers are so pink they’re almost blue. 

She comes to stand next to you, taking stock of your shivering, your endless patience. You do not look at her. This gives her plenty of time to look at you.

She says, 'You have waited awfully long.'

You say, 'It’s nothing.'

'How long will you wait?'

'As long as it takes.' You fumble your numb fingers into too-tight pockets, fish out your phone and let it light up the clouds of your breath. There is nothing new; you jam it back into place, blow hot air on your fingertips. She watches all of this with light and curious eyes.

'I’m getting rather cold,' she says. It is a lie; her breath is clear and invisible, her white arms without goosebumps as the wind flows around her. 'Would you join me inside for a drink?'

You shake your head. Your five o’clock shadow is darker than it was yesterday. 'I don’t drink.'

She looks you up and down again – how curious you are, how interesting, the frost lined edges of you and stone set stubbornness. 

Again, you say, 'I’m waiting for my friend.'

She inclines her head in understanding, brushing past you with the breeze to make her way inside.

On the third night, your stubble is highlighted with a layer of frost and your cheeks are red and peeling. Your phone is dead in your pocket and your eyes are as cold as the rest of you. You don’t even see her as she makes her way to your side.

'Let’s go for a walk,' she says softly. You don’t nod, but when she leads, you follow.

The snow is too old to crunch under your feet, collapsing into mush at the touch of your boot. She is the whitest thing left in the city now, the snow muddied and blackened with tire tracks and cigarette butts. The footprints behind are yours alone, as she glides over the footpath in a glimmering pale spectre.

'I’m waiting for my friend,' you murmur, as if out of habit. She doesn’t say anything for a moment. Her hand might be holding yours; it’s hard to say.

'You don’t want to wait forever,' she whispers. 'Perhaps we should go find him.'

You shake yourself away, waking up from your trance, blinking at the form in front of you. You have made it almost half a block away from the bar.

'I can’t,' you say. 'He’s waiting for me. I have to get my friend.'

'Where is he?' she asks. 'Where is he, Tristan?'

You shake your head. 'He’s waiting for me.'

'Come with me,' she says. You take a step back from her. Your vision blurs; she starts to turn from white to red.

'He’s waiting for me,' you whisper. 'I’m sorry. He’s waiting for me.' 

You turn around and run the short distance back to the bar, scuffing your own footsteps until the path disappears from memory.

She pities you on the fourth day. You are pink and blue from the cold, fingernails turning black at the edges, your watch stopped with the short hand trapped at 3. The second hand is the only one that keeps ticking.

'Still waiting?' she asks you. You don’t answer. You are a wretchedness; you don’t know what you wait for anymore. You can’t think of a reason to leave.

Her hand touches yours, or maybe it doesn’t. But she reaches for you, her eyes are sad and kind. She is bright where you are dull; she emits light where you leech it away.

'Let’s go for a drive,' she says. 'Let’s go home.'

The first car on the footpath is yours. You can’t get the keys out of your pocket, so you take the passenger seat. The woman in white slides into the driver's side without opening the door. You can’t look at her, can’t look at the road.

'Seatbelt,' she chides. Her side is buckled around nothing. You fumble to find yours with burning hands and numb fingertips. 

The car starts, but it doesn’t go anywhere. Hot air bursts out of the heating vents and buffets you until your skin is full of needles. You know she is looking at you, and you refuse to look back.

Eventually, she says, 'Do you know the way?'

The answer tastes of blood, sitting uncooperatively on your tongue. You say, 'I’m waiting for my friend.'

'I know,' she whispers. The car pulls away from the curb. 'It won’t be long now.'

Your eyes stick to the view as you wind your way out of the city, looking without relief or ability to turn away. The movement blur of the smeared city lights tastes like alcohol you don’t drink in the back of your throat, the bumps of tires in potholes ringing like laughter in your ears. Your hands are white knuckled on the wheel; but hang on a minute, you aren’t driving.

The car takes a roundabout with ease, even if the screeching of brakes and icy wheels is loud in your eyes. The woman in white doesn’t hear it, doesn’t look away from the road. You can see the steering wheel through her hands.

'He’s waiting for me,' you whisper. 'Keagan. Wait for me.'

'Hold on,' says the woman in white.

The car turns a corner, and you see the bridge. The metal railing is dented and twisted around itself, tumbling halfway down the steep bank. Orange cones twirl in a garland where you still see the phantom flashes of blue and red. Snow covers the ground where the dirt was ripped up and sprayed across the road. The burning in your throat is bitter and metallic.

The road is open, cars passing by in solemn silence. Not like it was when you drove past here. All the traffic stopped, even the snow hung in the air. Your phone ringing unanswered, sirens wailing sorrow across the city. You can still hear them now, if you listen hard, but you know the woman beside you doesn’t hear a thing.

'He should have waited for me,' you say. The car bumps onto the bridge, leaving the tangle of metal railing behind.

'I know,' she whispers beside you. Or maybe it’s behind you. Maybe you’re in the driver’s seat after all. 'It’s time to go home.'

Hurry up please, it's time. Hurry up please, it's time. You smell the bar in your nose. You are still burned by frost. Your throat still hurts and now you know why.

'Okay,' you whisper. The car bumps off the end of the bridge and turns a corner, leaving it all behind.