A group of construction workers sit at the foot of the Paternoster Square Column. Unpacking their sandwiches, meat jerky and cola whilst chatting loudly with one another. One nudges the other, another guffaws, one more chuckles, the last one is scoffing down his sandwich, they only have a 30-minute break after all… As if they all remembered that at the same time, the workers go silent, some gazing at the skyscrapers, some glancing down at the sandwich in their lap. One, however, seems unfocused, his eyes glazed over, perhaps not looking outwards but inwards. Perhaps about what he will be doing after work. But outside of work, he has nothing, no one to care for him and no one for him to care for. He travels home to empty rooms, cold couches and fake plants, an attempt to liven up the home but serves only as a reminder of what he doesn’t have. The worker sitting next to him pushes his shoulder, getting his attention and announcing to the group that it’s time to go back to work. They all begrudgingly stand up and begin back.
A man spins his child in a stroller doing donut O’s around the square, cheering loudly as the child giggles, opposing the stressed workers speeding across the square. Neither of them appears to have a care in the world. Two people in suits race past, staring at them disdainfully. The man slows and goes silent, the child still giggles, riding the adrenaline rush. He shamefully looks down at his feet as if apologising to the long-gone people in suits. The man could almost hear his father yelling at him to get a real job, feel his relatives’ stares and whispers, don’t become like him, work hard and get a good job, a real job. Under their scrutiny he is reverted back to a small child, weak and unable to stand on his own two feet, crumbling to expectations and unfulfilled prophecies, broken promises and a thousand what-ifs. The child exclaims, again, again, again, snapping him out of his trance. Gathering himself together he wore a bright smile on his face and glanced down at the child, preparing to race around the square once more.
A woman slumps down onto a bench, her face seems hollow, her head heavy, her undereyes dark with exhaustion. Slowly, she pulls out her lunch, her best attempt at her mother’s wonton soup noodles, placing it on her lap. She reaches into the depths of her bag to pull out her chopsticks, the disposable kind, tearing them apart and brushing the splinters away. Ding! Her phone lights up and she urgently checks it. A message from her mother, an update on her father’s condition back home. the treatment worked, he’s stable. But the bills are rising, she’ll have to take on another job to pay for that. With a weary sigh, she tucks her phone back into her bag, zipping it up. Cradling the paper bowl she gently peels back the plastic lid, dipping her chopsticks and bringing it to her mouth. The wontons have grown cold, the soup is too salty, the noodles too soft. She swallows it down, she has to get back to work soon. Drinking every last drop of soup, she places the plastic lid back on the paper bowl, picks up the chopsticks and disposes of them, grabbing her bag and heading wherever she’s supposed to be next.
–
“In between, not alone but still lonely, not an adult but not a child, not at home but can’t go anywhere else.”