You've seen her before.
On the Tube. Early in the morning, as you sway along with the rest of the passengers on your way to work. You've glanced up, run your eyes over the mass of humanity surrounding you --taking in little more than colours and shapes -- before dropping your eyes back down into the depths of whatever mobile device you happened to be engaging with that day.
But you've seen her. She takes the same train every morning, just like you do. She's tried to smile at you. Nod. A little bit of human contact.
You haven't responded. You don't know her. She's a stranger to you, and your mother browbeat it into you to never talk to strangers.
Although, with her slightly worn turquoise jacket, 2nd-hand paperback resting in her lap, and that Save The Bees bag by her feet, she doesn't look dangerous. She doesn't look like that type of stranger. You're an adult now, you know what danger looks like.
Still, you can never really tell, can you? Better safe than sorry.
And what about you, sir? You've seen her before, too.
No, don't look away and ruffle your newspaper. You know who I'm referring to.
That lady you sometimes see in the coffee shop in Tagart Street. The one either before you or behind you in the queue. You've looked at her-- seen the gentle fans of wrinkles around her eyes, the beginning droop of her jawline, the thin strands of grey running through her hair -- and looked away, mentally marking her as uninteresting.
She's too old for you to find attractive. A man in your position needs younger, better dressed. Although, if you were forced to pay some mind to her for longer, let's say for a bet, you'd have to admit that there's really nothing wrong with her, and her voice is actually quite pleasant.
And her voice you've heard, of course, as she's placed her order at the counter, and in the times she's said good morning to you. You've never responded. Don't want to encourage her. Put ideas in her head. Best to set clear borders.
But you've seen her before. You know you have.
What about you? Yes, you, the young lady in the ripped black hoodie. You've seen her, too, haven't you?
She's smiled at you, dropped a coin into your cup on a number of occasions, asked you how you are although she doesn't know you. And that's just it, isn't it? She doesn't know you. She doesn't know what you've been through. You don't need her pity, she can go screw herself. She's a stranger and that's how she should bloody well stay: a stranger. You don't want to talk to her. You don't want to talk to anybody.
But you've secretly watched her walk away, haven't you? With those discount trainers and that ridiculous Save the Bees bag. One of those do-gooders who wants a clap on the back for parting with one measly pound. Someone who always has some empty claptrap to spew about how you can get yourself out of the gutter if only you really, really want to.
Although, if you think about it, she's never said anything like that, has she?
You've seen her before. Even if you haven't wanted to.
Her name is Evie, if any of you were wondering, and she believes that if she were to disappear off the face of the Earth, not one living soul would notice.
She's wrong, of course, at least a handful of people would notice. People she passes by, or says hello to. People who never respond back. People who act like they can't hear her, can't see her.
At some point, if she were absent for too long from the urban landscape they inhabit, her image would ghost through their heads and for a few moments, she'd be the centre of their entire world. Where she'd gone to? Why she wasn't still with them, as a fixture of the city and their daily lives?
But Evie doesn't know that.
She sees the homeless girl on the corner and hopes she has a warm, dry place to stay for the night. The girl's stoney face, like a mask of apathy and hopelessness, never changes nor looks up when she drops a coin into her cup and asks her how she's getting on.
That pound won't help, it's only a token, a reason to stop. She wants the girl to know that another human being cares how she is, in case she's got no one else.
Then there's the dapper business man in the coffee shop who looks so desperate, like a child lost in the forest. His suits are expensive and, oh, that wonderful aftershave must have cost a fortune, but he's locked into the hamster wheel of his professional life, and is dying in it. That's plainly visible even for the likes of Evie who knows next to nothing about the business world.
She says good morning and smiles her best smile, just to show him there are still people in the world who aren't hiding a knife behind their back to stab him with.
And sometimes she sees that twenty-something on the Tube. The one attempting to hide behind the screen that keeps herself safe from the hundreds of virtual people she's in contact with, and even safer from those who surround her.
Evie recognises that. She used to hide behind the curtain of her hair when she was a schoolgirl, back when she thought other people were frightening and cruel. Before she realised other people are all any of us have.
She gives the girl a smile and a nod, but the girl is too scared to notice.
Evie feels as if it's her fault, this rejection. Her shoulders sag as she climbs the stairs to the first-floor office where she works a purely routine job, interacting with hardly anyone all day. The bag with the cute little bee on it she got for free at a concert grows a little heavier with each passing day.
It's not just these people, it's others she sees, too. They're just as lonely as she is, feel just as disregarded in the rush and flash of the city. She's trying to reach out, but she's not getting anywhere.
She feels like a ghost, unseen, haunting the living.
That has an effect: some days she has trouble breathing. It's as if there's just not enough air in the tiny office. As if the desk, computer, filing cabinets and even the sounds of keyboards clacking in other rooms are sucking all of the oxygen out of her lungs, funnelling it elsewhere, into other, more vibrant lives.
She gets up and bangs open one of the large windows with the flat of her palm, letting in a warm breeze of petrol fumes, shouts and fine grit. She sticks her head out and surveys the busy road below as she breaths deeply, attempting to fill her lungs with anything but despair.
I don't think any of you're there to witness it -- you're mostly likely preoccupied elsewhere with more important matters -- but something out of the ordinary happens on a Tuesday evening as Evie makes her way to the Tube station to go home.
She's moving along with the mindless flow of foot traffic on the pavement, inconsequential thoughts drifting through her mind, when she spots one of those foreign rose sellers. A man as dark and shiny as mahogany with a tight cluster of beautiful red roses in his hand, hurrying along to press them on couples in restaurants and parks.
The colour. It's the colour that hits her. She can't take her eyes of the intense, pulsing red, and veers out of the invisible lane of pedestrians towards it.
"How much for the whole thing?" she asks the man, her voice a little breathless.
The man doesn't understand very well, thinks she only wants one. His grasp of English is shaky at best, but he smiles a gap-tooth smile and holds up three fingers.
"No," she waves her hand, "For all of the flowers. I want all of them."
The bouquet is expensive, but she digs the money out and hands it to the surprised seller, who suddenly finds himself without occupation for the evening.
Evie walks on, deviating from her normal routine. The flowers are just so beautiful, she doesn't want to take them into the unnatural light of the Underground. She wants to share them with everyone she sees.
She pulls one of the roses out and tries to hand it to a woman walking past her in the opposite direction.
"Hello! Aren't these beau-"
She only gets a few syllables out before the woman glares at her and demonstratively barrels past. She tries with the next person, but they are too involved with their mobile device, almost smacking the flower out of her outstretched hand as they pass, not noticing what they've done.
Some people do take the rose Evie offers them, simply on reflex. They walk on, confused and unsettled, unsure what to do with the vibrant, living thing that's appeared in their hand.
But, here's the thing. They'll all remember they've seen her.
Weeks, for some even months, later they'll all remember the woman in the turquoise jacket who gave them a bright red rose for no reason. The memory will make them shift uneasily in their chairs and fiddle with their pens, as if they'd been given a genuine compliment they didn't expect, and still don't know how to accept.
When the bouquet is half gone, the moment I've been waiting for happens: Zoë comes strolling along.
"Hello! Aren't these beautiful? Have one!"
Zoë stops, eyes this stranger and the rose being held out with suspicion. She's learned the hard way not to trust anyone or anything, especially not strangers in the road.
"Are you selling something?" she asks, expecting to hear a bubbly pitch for a new restaurant or an expensive beauty salon.
"No, I just thought these flowers were so pretty. Everyone should have one." Evie holds out the rose towards Zoë, who is still scowling, gesturing for her to take it.
"Why? Is it poisoned? Are you one of those sickos out to kill people?"
"What?" The thought is so shocking, Evie's eyes widen and she laughs. The corners of Zoë's mouth twitch slightly. She realises a bit too late how strange what she's just said sounds.
"Alright. If you're not advertising something and you aren't a serial killer, then why do you want me to have one?" She nods her thin, pale face towards the flower hovering in the air between them.
Evie tells her. About feeling invisible, about not getting replies to your hellos, about being treated like an obstacle in everyone's path, more a lamp post than a person. The more Zoë listens, the more she just wants to rip the flower from the woman's hand and be on her way.
But Zoë knows the feeling of intense isolation in the middle of millions all too well. Hearing her exact experience coming from the mouth of a stranger is as comforting as it is infuriating. It makes her feel as if her innermost secrets have been exposed, and at the same time, as if there is nothing all that special about them. Her experience is not unique. This greying woman on the pavement is exactly like she is.
And that's when Zoë does something utterly unexpected, even to herself.
She takes the rose and tells the woman how she knows more virtual people than real ones anymore. How she can go days without speaking more than a few sentences to any living being. How her husband treats her like a neighbour, and her children like a shopkeeper they aren't particularly fond of. How she can't remember the last time she had a conversation with anyone who wasn't constantly glancing at their mobile device, ready to interrupt her for the sake of an insignificant text.
Evie listens, nodding and understanding.
And there they stand, two women on the pavement, as thousands of people move around them, hurrying on to their own destinations, caught up in their own thoughts, lives, stories.
The pedestrians don't really see them, but that doesn't matter.
They're seeing each other.
And that's the whole point.
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This is for the UrbanPromptFriday prompt "deep in the city". Write about a character who feels alone in the city and has to step outside of their comfort zone to make meaningful connections.