Our city of secrets
Not everyone can know or care and not everyone should.
For the last few years, I’ve been a bit of a crab, swapping one home for another every year or so. And while that’s exciting and almost always interesting, it comes with limitations. Some things in life sit too high on the shelf for a newbie to reach. It’s why locals are always the best people to ask for recommendations. And it’s this distance which hides the subtle charms away from those who haven’t earned them. But ever since the end of 2020, I’ve been in one place, and these last few years of stability have given me time to spot some of my city’s little secrets.
At the right time of the day, when the sun is fading over the orange roofs and the road below is quiet, you might hear it; the concerto sneaking out onto the street. And it’s not just me who notices. Others, faces I’ve seen but don’t know, stop in their tracks at the sound. It’s as if the notes are hypnotising, lulling whoever passes close enough and with keen enough ears to a standstill. Even I, one of the lucky ones who live within earshot of those notes bleeding into the night sky, freeze if I dare step closer. It’s the sound of mermaids, intoxicating and deadly.
Most people who live in the city miss this tiny secret, and they are the ones who probably miss all the others, too. Because that’s what our little city is, a treasure trove of secrets: secret concertos, rendezvous, viewpoints, benches, smiles and thoughts.
There’s the view from the rooftop hidden among chimney stacks, orange slates and howling winds. The place I stole a kiss and got given an extra for my trouble. It’s where I watch the new year explode into life and lightning bolt from the sky.
At ground level, hidden in the corners of a café, a woman obscures her truth from the man a few tables away, letting her gaze linger a little longer than she should. His cheeks blush, but his eyes hold steady, taking half the weight from hers.
Outside, past the traffic lights and boutiques, among the trees and away from the cobbled paths, there’s an abandoned bench. It’s too crooked to have been factory-made and too new to be left alone. Once upon a time, someone moved it here. It had been their hidden space, away from the rest. A piece of picnic paradise cut into wild grass, concealed out of sight. And now it’s passed to me without exchanges or confirmation. Once summer arrives, I go to it, wondering if it’ll still be there, but it always is and with proof of other lives too. Stained on the flaking blue paint that used to give it some charm, a coffee ring and initials engraved. It’s no longer my secret, it’s ours. I leave it for the next person, and head back to the shadowed streets, wondering who left their mark.
Lights turn green, and I cross a road. Now I’m slithering through a lane no wider than my shoulders. It’s here, between closing walls, that we bump into each other, not for the first time, and I hope not for the last. He’s careful with his words but reckless with his eyes, burning holes straight through me. I join I’m in his recklessness and wonder if it leaves him with the same thoughts. This is one of my favourite secrets, hidden and harmless. Our arms brush against each other as we swap directions. For a moment, my imagination launches into the distance; I can feel his breath on my neck and his grip under my thighs. But as fast as it takes off, it returns. I’m left waiting until the next time.
Now I’m home; there are no secrets here. The wooden stairs ensure it, alerting those listening to my arrival. Then the door does the same as I push it open. It’s late, and the day is giving way to the night; yellow beams flood the walls with their unnatural gloom, and the sound of the road hums with those hurrying home. I can almost hear them warming up, stretching out their hands. It won’t be long until I can snatch a bar or two out of the air, but it’s asking too much to stay inside behind windows and walls. There’s a stool on my balcony, it’s wet from yesterday’s rain, so I wipe it dry and take my place. In the winter, I’m wrapped up with whatever’s at hand, a blanket, my coat, or one of his. But tonight, they aren’t required. The sun has done her part, and the breeze is warm with her power. A bus stops, spoiling the peace, then drifts away carrying faces I recognise and others, silhouettes and secrets. Replacing its groan is what I’ve waited for, and I focus my attention. They’re practising, repeating one motif after another, tickling the keys like someone opening a safe. They start again from the top, and now I see, about to pass a man I know well, he’ll cross the road and climb the creaking stairs. He’s no secret at all, and I observe him with certainty. He looks up at the balcony, but there’s no sign of recollection on his face or lingering gaze. I’m nowhere to be seen, hidden by the size of the stool and the angle of his sight. Then he stops in the firing line. From there, there’s no need for keen ears or attention to detail. But then, as fresh notes waft my way, he’s walking again, uninterested. I suppose that’s how secrets work. Not everyone can know or care, and not everyone should.
As always, if you enjoyed this post or some of my other work, please recommend this newsletter to a friend… or two. It really helps. See you in the same place in a week(ish).
Love, Luke.