Circular.

 
One day, he dropped into the seat in front of her without a word. She had put her book down a few minutes prior, and that was the only reason she reacted when he sat down.

“The seat is not taken.” She said, “But thanks for asking.”

He shrugged carelessly, his boyish hair flopping on his head as he did so.

“I see you’ve finally finished reading.”

They both glanced down at the nondescript book on the coffee table.

“I’ve been meaning to approach you for ages and ages, I guess today is my lucky day.”

“How long?”

There was the faintest hint of a question in her intonation, just two syllables expressing a veiled sense of curiosity and surprise.

“Days, weeks maybe. You always sit at the same table.”

“I see no reason to change my habits.”

“It must be a fascinating book; I haven’t seen you glance up even once.”

“It is.” She flipped the book over onto its front. It has a plain dark green cover. He already knew what he would see there. He had been watching her long enough.

“What is it about?”

“You can’t tell from the cover?”

He shook his head.

“I suppose it’s an autobiography of sorts. It starts with the narrator walking down a long, long hallway.”

“With thick carpet?”

“I suppose so. His footsteps are muffled, so that could be why. During the walk he thinks about a lot of things. Basically, he reflects on his life and the people he knows.”

“What about his life and the people he knows?”

“I can’t tell you the whole story but I can give you an example. There was one relationship that he had been in; the girl he fell in love with told him out of the blue that she can’t be with him anymore. She says this: ‘It doesn’t matter how many things we’ve been through or how long I have known you. None of this is enough. After so long, I still feel like I don’t know you and I can’t go on trying anymore, it’s too tiring.’”

“That’s a bit harsh.”

“I thought so too, and then I thought about it. It’s true what she said; you can’t know somebody to the extent that you know everything about them, and it doesn’t matter how hard you try. A lot of the people we are in relationships with, it’s not about how compatible you are, or how much you have in common; it’s about who you meet, a lot of it is just geographic correlation.”

“Like this café, the fact that I have seen you here for weeks now is that we both live or work around this area.”

“Precisely.” She took a sip of her coffee, now long cold.

He stared at the way her fingers wrapped around the mug for a moment, before musing aloud.

“But maybe that isn’t the point about relationships. It isn’t about how much we know about each other; love isn’t defined by whether we know everything about each other that other people may not, it’s about making the most of what we do know. It is a miracle that two people can meet and have coffee together; it may have everything to do with geographic correlation, but it also has everything to do with how much time and effort we are willing to put into the relationship, despite not knowing everything about the other person.”

He paused, his eyes softening.

“Tell me how the book ends.”

She pushed the book toward him across the table.

“The last page is missing.”

He reached for the book, taking out his pen as he did so. She glanced at the upside down words as he wrote. When he finished, he walked around the table and took her in his arms.

“Oh god, I’ve missed you so much."

Fin

Part 1: Doubt. To be sure.

Picture taken from Pinterest.

You look into the silver grey eyes of your newborn baby girl as doubt gnaws at your heart. There is no question of who the baby’s father is; she is yours, you are the father. Why then, is there this doubt, this worry like an incessant headache of the mind, pounding, pounding, shaking the foundations of your soul? You smile mechanically at your wife who wraps you in her tender embrace. Waves of memory overtake you as you remember how you two had gotten together. It was not the happiest of beginnings, to be sure, and it continues to be scarcely mentioned for that reason.

You see, there were three of them---the classic love triangle.

You were brothers, not by blood but by choice. Both excelled at the same sports, preferred Coke over Pepsi, enjoyed listening to Leonard Cohen and Bob Dylan while studying, and even saved all the orange skittles for last. It was not so much a surprise when you both fell in love with the same girl, and she with you. It was never clear who she had preferred out of the pair of you, and it is your greatest fear that, despite your ring on her finger, the matter is still unresolved.

It was a tragic accident in senior year that was the deciding factor; both of you were involved in a car accident on the way home from soccer practice. You were lucky and had your seat belt on, your friend, not so much. The screeching of tires was still echoing in your head as she threw her arms around you in the waiting area of ER and sobbed, glad that you were still alive.

“Adam, how is Adam?”

That was the first question she had asked and it haunts you to this very day.

“He…he didn’t make it. I’m so sorry.”

The words, unspoken, remained in your head.

There is just the two of us now.

She fell into your arms, weeping, her fingers occasionally feeling for your heartbeat, reassuring herself that at least you are still alive. Later, she would tell you that she loves you, that it has only ever been you, and not Adam. Adam, who is buried ten feet underground. You were so happy, so happy when she had said yes to your proposal. You thought you had won, that she has chosen you, but you can never and will never be sure.

Staring into your baby girl's eyes, the colour so much like your own. 

You wish you could be sure.


to be continued...

Golf: A lesson on commitment (first draft)

The smell of freshly cut grass and the sound of golf balls churning within the ball dispenser machine; these are all familiar sensations from long ago, brought again to the forefront of my mind after so many years. This was not really a happy place, nor was it a sad place. It was the place that I have often ended up after being awoken at 7 in the morning on weekends when I didn’t have school. You may ask, who has classes during weekends, how is that even possible? But I did. Life as a child with Asian parents is never carefree, and when one finds oneself far from one’s place of origin, it is paradoxically even less so. I never regretted my childhood or lack of one; it is what gives me the discipline to excel, to be good at time management, at organizing my time so I can have a life outside of the rigidity of the activities planned for me. For Asian parents, however, mine were probably more on the lax side. 

Signs of Life

She sees the world in black and white, with no colours. Feelings come to her slowly, or not at all, but mostly she just feels like she is living under a sky in perpetual threat of rain, and the fear of not being able to find shelter in time. In her world there is no asylum, no one to trust and none of the ships have safe harbours. Despite all this, she is not afraid of getting hurt; she lives life in total abandon, like a leaf fallen from a tree, constantly drifting, borne along the current of a merciless wind. Or is it because she is too afraid of getting hurt? Maybe she thinks that hiding behind a facade of apathy will lead others to accept her because she has nothing to lose. There is something about her twisted sense of logic that I understand, but the strands are so tangled that there is no way it could have ever been logical to begin with. Pretty soon, there will be no sign of life behind her facade at all, and I am scared that I will not be able to save her from this process of self-decay.

Foreign Blood (Masochist)

I cringed again as I dipped the silver-tipped needle into the vial of crimson liquid, pulling up the plunger to the syringe with meticulous care to get the precise amount. Closing my eyes, I grabbed the syringe and stabbed it into my arm, not caring where it sank as long as the blood made it into my veins with as little resistance as possible. There were so many pinpricks in my body now; pretty soon I would be covered in nothing but holes. My skin continues to heal, however, and every time I examine, there would be an empty patch just begging to be violated.

I waited with baited breath as the blood began to take its effect, the next part that I could never get used to. I gasped as a roiling sensation had me on all fours, my immune system struggling to comprehend this unexpected, nonsensical invasion by alien blood cells. What was perplexing was how despite the many times that I had done this, these planned invasions always caught my system by surprise, the pain never lessening with each time as sharp as the times before. I tried hard just to focus on breathing, hoping that this time it would finally kill me, but also fearing that it would.

I hated myself for being so weak, constantly making excuses for myself in my head, telling myself that I could not help doing what I do because I am unwell. As if psychological frailties could ever hold the key to all my answers! As the battle within me subsided, I was wrung out with exhaustion, heap of rags on the floor. Already I was thinking of the next hit.

You would think that fighting for your life continuously would make you appreciate living more, but all I want is for mine to end…and oblivion.

My Generation

You can save all your indignation about how my generation is worse than yours, how things were so much simpler and how there was so much more quality to relationships when you were young. Maybe you are right about some of those things you hate us for, the parts about us loitering around the 711s, breaking glass bottles...wait, are you sure that was just my generation?