I observe these two old friends as they stand in conversation. They have stood this way for some time now. A few steps apart, with enough space to not drive each other mad, and close enough to keep the time passing with chat. They gossip about the tourists who come and go, the ones with loud children who refuse to stay in their seats, and the old married couples who sit in silence with full glasses of wine.
They reminisce, and wait excitedly, for those few weeks in August when the sun beams down with fury. The days when everyone who passes stops in their tracks to face them, grateful. It's on these days, when the shade beneath the red awning stretches out, that these two friends stand their tallest.
They are the closest friends, having been by each other’s side every day since they were first laid down on this corner. They must have been nervous at the time — anxious about taking up too much space or not fitting in, hoping to find their neighbours, companions, and friends. But they managed, together — squeezing, wiggling, and matching just right.
From afar, it may look cramped, but I think they are comfortable. I think they love it, the shoulder to shoulder, being cobble to cobble and the intimacy that comes with it.
I do wonder though — do they wish to speak with the rows further down the path? They can’t just slide over for a chat. Although maybe they’ve found ways. Do they play telephone whispers, passing along messages and gossiping observations from the odd feet they encounter? Do they have a secret network of communication? They must have figured it out after being with one another for so long. After such time together, you become so connected – maybe they are telepathic — no words needed, just mind messages. They must be telepathic.
And today — they must have so much to discuss, so much gossip to share. New shop owners! What does this mean? Who will come along? And when will these new owners move the drama queen, who lays in a right old sulk, begging for sympathy as her glory days are over? New shop means a new, younger carpet. The bitch is down.
A metal fence, nothing special, just standing there. Old, but not old enough yet to be replaced, still serving whatever random purpose it was meant for. It stands lodged, solid in place, feet firmly in the ground. The ground itself is paved in slates, weaker looking than the fence, clearly not laid with love, calling out desperately for a spa day.
And the weeds, I love the weeds. Peeking through the gaps, climbing up the metal legs so politely, so respectfully. Neither fence nor pavement seem offended. Not welcoming either, but impartial, one hundred percent.
These three never asked to be placed together, never even knew of each other until one followed the other by chance, by human hand, by nature. Yet here they are, occupying their little corner of the street together.