Walking back to Main Street she continued across to First Street. Once again, she made her way to another grey box. The dial inside, more used than the previous, pointed to zero. A slight smile caught her otherwise sullen face as she turned the dial to the only other number.
Neon flooded from a building at the far end of the row to her right. The buzzing noise from the transformer infiltrated the town like a Hornets nest while the sign flashed blue and yellow before staying steady for ten seconds and then repeating its hypnotic cycle. Grace always found her way here when the rain had washed the streets. In the darkness of night, the lights would reflect off the soaked blacktop and give the impression of an unwinnable fight between high and low. The puddles of water glistened and showed miniature versions of blue and yellow as if gateways to other dimensions had opened beneath them. No matter the weather in Alonetown there was always something beautiful to see.
Grace pulled at the handle and stepped inside.
Small round dark wooden tables dotted the floor like wild mushrooms. Three chairs encircled each table, a classic tactic of attacking from all sides. Seven tables. Twenty-one chairs. A small area in the middle was clear of the debris. The dark wooden floor, more worn and scuffed then the other boards, had played host to dances and birthday parties for young and old alike. On her ninth birthday Grace had come here with her mother and father, danced on the floor hand in hand and played pass the parcel between the three of them. A game she seemed to excel in. At the time it had been a marvel, now, it pained her to feel the loneliness in those memories.
On the walls hung small, branded neon signs springing out from the dark panelling. Bright yellows, blues and reds blended peacefully together to create other colours which stood out against the dark backdrop. An emergence of opposites held as the same.
Waiting against the far wall, large and imposing, the steady lights and reflecting glass of Graces childhood robot. The large juke box stood proudly and quietly awaiting its next command. This time Grace held no fear as she stepped up to choose from the one hundred songs available. Stabbing at the white button, its worn ‘G’ barely visible, was followed by a similarly worn ‘3’ before she stepped back and waited for it to speak.
The music cut through the silence like an atomic bomb. Grace flinched at the first few notes of the big band hit before making her way behind the bar. Tortured bottles hung upside down in front of a large mirror, each bottle reflecting a curved rotated view of the room in miniature. The few glasses on the shelf had recently been cleaned but Grace blew into one anyway before half filling it with clear liquid from a lone bottle on the counter.
Navigating to the clearing amongst the tables and chairs she placed the glass against her soft lips. Standing with eyes closed she felt for the vibration of the music pounding through the wooden floor. Each note caused her to forget the most recent moments in favour of older feelings and distorted scenes. She watched her mother and father dance, quick motions of dips and twirls, meringue fabric ballooning, swaying and resting before repeating its own rhythm. Her memory of whose birthday it was, or even if it was a birthday, was lost amongst other visits, she could only remember the smile on her mother’s face, her carefree dance moves in-time with the big sounds. Music, a changer of mood.
This was the building in contrast to the rest of the town. The voice-box. The loudest building in the world.
When the music stopped Grace opened her eyes and stopped mid-sway, taking in the sounds while absorbing the memory. The low hiss from the robot lasted for a few seconds more before it clicked and whirred and retreated to its slumber leaving a silence that was as deafening as the music before it. She stood and stared for a moment before placing the glass, still half full, on the nearest table and walking toward the door. Turning, she looked down at the wooden dance floor, stared at it as though trying to retain the picture of each scratch and scuff. Merged moments flat lined as the detail was lost to her. Raising her hand, she waved once to the now silent robot, an old and familiar gesture, before closing the door, stepping out and taking the memory with her.
Like most people, time in her head was fluid. An inbuilt time-machine capable of going back to a point in life or skipping forward into a future yet unknown but full of dreams and expectations. The last bastion of control. Unhindered creativity building upon reality.
The snap of cold air sucked into her lungs. Breathing became shallow as she guided her jacket zip together and up in one unconscious motion before burying her hands deep into pockets at angles which made her elbows jut backward. Fingers curled around the small bottle in her left pocket. An item not forgotten, now turned and caressed, the contents falling and rattling against each lowered side.
She stopped again at the corner of Main Street and First Avenue. The light behind her invaded the town. Shadows cast for the briefest of time where the light could not reach. She took her time looking over each building she could see. She could glimpse the rear of her car at the top of Main Street, now entwinned in the fabric of her world. One of only two vehicles parked in the town. Nothing moved. Even the occasional breeze was now lost to the night.
As Grace turned the dial back to zero the night again descended, enveloping shadows and buildings alike. The faint streetlight partly illuminated a concrete bench on the other side of the road; the town name curved along the solid grey backrest. She made her way across and sat on the left side. Next to her a blue metal pole with its never moving flag with the word ‘BUS’ covering most of the surface. It crossed her mind that she had never sat on this bench. Never waited for a bus that only a miracle would see come. She inhaled deeply and held her breath. Nothing. Nothing. The photo held for as long as she could hold her breath. To the very edge she held her lungs tight. Her eyelids held solidly, her frame rigid. The pulse from her heart grew stronger throughout her body. Slight movements, a rhythm of rocking forward and backward as her body fought against the control she had, the decision she had taken. Eventually self-preservation kicked in with sounds of gasping and air flooding oxygen in a continuation of life. Sitting back, she allowed herself to relax, her shoulders limp, breathing deeply and savouring each wave as it filled her lungs.
Twisting her body, she lay on her back across the length of the bench staring up at the full night sky. A feeling of contentment, a loss of anguish and guilt. Acceptance of life and the things that must be things relaxed the muscles and slowed her breathing. Her eyelids became soft and heavy while she gave in to the demands to close them. She would let her body rest, let it dream once more without judgement or barriers.