The Woman Who Fell To Earth

Chapter 9

Jupiter

David sat on the coffee table in her underpants and a striped long sleeve oxford. She was shortening the hem on a pair of ice blue pants, sewing short, even stitches with a needle and thread she'd found in a hotel sewing kit, when the front door locks jiggled and clinked. She looked up expectantly, and Art swung open the door. "Hey there," he announced jovially.

"What are you doing home so early?" David asked. She looked at the clock. It was just past three.

Art hung up David's black coat he'd adopted on the coat rack. "It's such a gorgeous day, a few of us decided to knock off early to enjoy it before it got dark."

"That's not like you."

"I haven't been like me for days," he said. "Let's go to the park."

"The park?" David said. "What are we going to do, throw a Frisbee?" She looked back to her stitches.

"Not a park, the Park," Art emphasized. "Unless you want to throw a Frisbee, then sure." He still was not a master at reading David's dry English.

"I do not want to throw a Frisbee," she said. "But I could go for some fresh air." She tied a knot at the end of the thread and held up the pants, folding them in half to check for even length. Seeing they were perfect, she stood up and slipped them on, tucking in the striped shirt and buttoning the waist of the newly tailored pants.

"It'll be fun, you'll see," Art encouraged her. He couldn't believe it was he encouraging her to go out and see things and be with people and explore. What had happened to him?

David slipped on a pair of red loafers and shook out a blazer, ice blue that matched her pants.

"Oh, it's so nice out, you don't need a jacket," Art said.

David slipped it on over her arms. "I always need a jacket," she said, and Art didn't know if she meant because she'd be cold or because it matched her outfit. She pulled a red and blue colored silk scarf from her stockpile of scarf rations and tied it around her neck like an ascot. Art traded his work shirt for a simple half zip fleece pullover, to which David scoffed but relentlessly gave in with a disapproving shake of her head and said, "If you must."

They walked in the cool sunshine to the open gates of the park, to the bustling of bodies jogging, walking, stopping and talking. It was as if the park had been closed all year and today was opening day and buy one get one free admission. There were bodies flung on the grass, and the smell of humans in the air. Street performers danced, played guitar, played sitar, performed magic tricks and juggled for amusement and spare change. David coaxed Art into throwing a dollar bill in a couple of instrument cases. "It's difficult work being a struggling musician," she reasoned.

They continued on the pathway, across a bridge, over the water. Music carried over the breeze and they followed it to the castle, to Shakespeare Garden and a court of people dressed in their finery. The music belonged to a four-piece band with an additional brass section. The guests danced in a line, snaking their way through the garden, appendages akimbo. The snake wound its way on its belly full of legs, and as it approached David and Art, it took the form of a train, a compartment door opening and swallowing the pair who showed little resistance.

"All aboard," shouted a woman in a black gown, her feet bare, heels thrown somewhere she would think about tomorrow morning in her hangover. She grabbed Art's hand and pulled him in, placing her hands on his shoulders, steering him while she sang along with the band. She yelled in his ear, "Come on ride the train, ride it," in her best seventies disco impersonation.