Galata Schmalata – A (very) Short Story

Galata Schmalata – A (very) Short Story

by Olivia Horrox

She stopped and stared up at the building. It was the most beautiful dusty rose colour. It must have been red brick at some point and been weathered with time. She wondered what colour she would have been originally had she been a building, and what she would look like now with all her twenty-three years of weathering.

‘How many people have looked at this building?’ she wondered. It seemed like such a banal and stupid question upon real thought, but it allowed her mind to drift over all the faces of those who had stared in the same direction as her. All of their stories, with all of their baggage. Their families and past lovers. Had this technically very plain building reminded someone of someone else? A sister of a brother, an uncle of his niece, a widower of her best friend. We have so many ties in this world, yet never know anything of each other’s. But it sure is fun to wonder.

She wandered on, down the cobbled street amidst the crowds of people. Past Galata Tower, which was beautiful, but gave her no real rush of imagination like her plain old dusty rose building had.

She was, of course, thinking of him. The one she always wished she could share these moments with. The only other mind that she had ever felt truly akin with, and yet the only other mind she had ever been consistently fascinated by.

He would have stopped. And stared. And with a tilt of the head said something so true and yet mesmerising; able to make even the dullest of colours seem awash with purpose. He was, after all, just like the building itself – unassuming and understated. But once truly looked at, absolutely sensational.

 

By Olivia Horrox