The weather was ideal. They could not have picked a worse day for their garden party. The sun beat down on my head as we carried the tent out of the carriage. I gazed up as I wiped my brow. A feeble wisp of cloud floated earnestly towards the sun. I felt a small grin stretch across my face as me and the boys walked through those needlessly shiny gates.

  A boy was polishing one of its many glistening poles. I scoffed, who would be criticising a gate as the first thing on this fine day? I tried to catch the boy’s eye to give him a reassuring nod, or at least an acknowledgement of some sort, but he didn’t seem to notice me.

  I gazed up again. The dull excuse of a cloud had already passed the sun. What? Impossible. I hadn’t even felt the slightest relief of heat. I sighed and so did my colleagues; we knew were unworthy to be blessed with shade just yet, at least not before we had earned our day.

  Setting up a tent- or marquee as they call it- is not as hard as we make it out to be. Yet still, we groan. We groan every time they pass with a stack of cakes, or a jug of ice, or even just a fan in hand. If we have nothing nice to say, we may as well complain. After all, the money stays the same.

  A voice called. I had heard many but this one made me turn.

  Out she came, her hair dancing gently in the soft breeze, as if the wind itself felt obligated to emphasise her beauty. Her clothes were immaculate, yet somehow retained her charm in a humble manner. You could tell she was not trying to blind the common man with gold and silver he could only dream of touching. Her eyes were well-rested, and her eyebrows showed an almost annoying sense of ease. But it was not annoying, merely clueless.

  She said something to Alf, something about the location or whatever- or maybe… no, it was definitely the location. Well, either way, I wasn’t really paying attention. With Alf no longer holding the stupid tent, I had to focus twice as hard on not tearing a muscle. The girl was eating bread with butter, holding her hand in front of her mouth as she spoke, as if worried we were going to see the crumbs in her smile. I shook my head, how strange these people could be.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  She held it so normally. That’s what bothers me most, I think. She held it as I would hold a hammer, or how my mother would hold my baby sister. A slice of bread with butter felt like air in her hands, as if, if it vanished, melted into the air, her world would keep turning with no more than a disappointed groan.

  We followed her to the tennis courts. They were a lot smaller then I had imagined, but it was hard to imagine anything about sport at all with the sun’s grip still clutching my temple. I might have fainted, maybe I did, but either way I still stood straight. Alf must have seen me, because he suggested we move the tent to the trees, to the shade.

  Then she gazed at me. I remember this, because her expression was very difficult to read. I somehow felt like an animal in a zoo, yet the glass was gone and it wasn’t particularly an alien sense of wonder in her eyes. More of a pity, a human pity.

  In the shade, we began to set up the primary poles. She was still there, not moving much. I couldn’t help but crane my neck from time to time. I think she caught me looking once, and she tilted her head a little, still with that irritably charming smile. She watched us hammer and holler and laugh and sigh and wipe and groan and complain and she did not leave once. She didn’t even move. We were worlds apart and yet there she stood on the edge of ours.

  I was thirsty, incredibly, yet I dared not get up just yet in case she was gone by the time I came back. I sat for a second and plastered my forehead onto the grass. It was pleasantly damp, the blades painting my brow with delicate strokes, prickling and poking my eyebrows and mixing with my own sweat.

  She took a step toward my direction, and her mouth opened without a hand in front.

  “Laura, Laura, where are you? Telephone, Laura!” came a voice from inside the house.

  The girl seemed to snap out of something, before taking one last bite out of her bread and running back to the house. I did not lift my head, but the prickles were no longer laced with the same, cooling dew.

  I lifted myself and itched my brow. Alf walked past me a knelt down.

  “Eyes on your work, Ivan. Trust me, it’s not worth it,” he said, as if he knew what I was thinking already. I nodded and began hammering the poles again like nothing had changed.

  A cloud passed over the sun, and everything was the same colour for a few seconds, before it passed on again, and I was once more wearing grey overalls.