Still

A short story about statues.

            In a bog-standard trendy hotel in Amsterdam, there is a statue in the lobby. This is not unusual- many bog-standard trendy hotels in Amsterdam clutter their spaces with artwork, clashing so-called high-brow art with infantile colours, interestingly-shaped chairs, and complimentary ping pong tables. The statue itself isn’t especially unusual either- an all-white shiny plastic facsimile of a man, sitting and smiling with one arm extended as if inviting the viewer to sit beside him, upon which occasion he will curl his arm around his companion and they’ll chat like old friends.

            I find myself standing in front of this statue, one unremarkable day. I wonder if I should sit, if sitting would somehow ignite some magic latent in this utterly unmagical space. Perhaps the statue would put his arm around me, draw me close, and mutter, “The music’s a bit loud in here, don’t you think?”

            There is a very similar statue in a place I used to call home. Two men sitting on a bench, the whole scene made of grey stone coloured an even darker shade by the constant rain. One of them is Oscar Wilde. No-one ever remembers the other man’s name, despite a plaque announcing both names implanted in the cobblestones at their feet. Tourists sit on the space on the bench between them, posing for pictures. Drunk students do the same, asking the statues if they’d like to join their afterparties. I’ve sat on that bench many times. Drunk, lonely, scared, delighted, introspective, often soaked with rain. I used to sit there and tell them about my days. At nineteen, I told them that my mum was in hospital, and I was afraid. At twenty-one, I told them about a man I’d met, who I hoped would stay. At twenty-five, I told them I had to go, but I’d see them again. They always listened. Facing each other, I was never quite tall enough to meet their stoic grey eyes. Their hands lay on their laps, the way real hands would. The way my hands did too, as I spoke to them.

            The white plastic face grins at me, leering at the story I have yet to tell him. Greedy for salacious details, for funny poses, for selfies posted with the hotel’s hashtag. No name on the ground below him, just a vessel for vanity. His hands open, ready to grab.

            Rage bubbles up inside me, like a vile acid reflux that would melt him in moments if released. I suddenly wish for a hammer, for knuckledusters, for the strength to rip the stupid smile off his face and crush it in my hand. I walk past him and sit, on a trapezoidal couch as uncomfortable as it is Instagrammable. But I’m out of his reach.

            The man sitting beside me has his hands on his lap. He turns to face me, his smiling eyes meeting mine. I shuffle towards him and his arms open to encircle me. When I lean against him, he is soft and warm. He is real. What I say, he will hear.

            I tell him about my day.

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