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{anyway} jill chan When she went home, something reminded her of substance. It wasn't anything at all of his nor her recollection of him. It was something simple—a shirt he wore which got caught between his wearing it, and her reappearance in his life. At first, it was just that. Then the complicated nature of forgetting settles in—the way he sat uncrossable as a reminder. Or, failing anything of his, she generalises. Perhaps this will do. Perhaps this will never do at all. Anyway. She noticed that since his departure, she liked to use this word which means absolutely nothing to common people like her. She has uncommon tastes—This is as true as she was at this moment. But in referring to him, it changes like things alluded to become stale or grow in age. That is, it either ages with grace or devalues in time. Of course, in this age, it is subtlety which wins. And she hasn't stopped developing the things she admires in him. Not quite there in him yet so unreal in herself. At the moment he called, she was listening to music. Pastime or companion, it doesn't matter to her now. Music is just music when there is no him. This fact is cautious in her. When the music was interrupted by his presence, she looked so far at him, she seemed to look through time and saw herself failing once again at standing inside it. He hasn't aged; she has a little bit. That is, to herself. Because at the moment she was thinking this, he said,”You look the same. Perhaps younger.” The curious thing is, he deemed everything that has happened before as fact. He was never the romantic type. Very matter of fact and straightforward. Quite unlike her. She considers herself conscious of perfect things yet never nudges herself towards them. She is unwilling to compromise yet laughs at her own mistakes. He was not a mistake. At this time in her life though, she is thinking that he is. To quit standing up for something—a calamity or a diversion, is careless when this person appears almost cool to her gaze running away from her now. The most vivid memory of him was the last time they met. He dropped by almost by accident. He said he was going into town to meet with family but at the last minute changed his mind. It was the weirdest evening. It was night to be precise. But the dark covered itself so completely, the evening closed earlier than they could strengthen it. He sat down so still the whole time, she wondered if he was bored or just moody. The whole night, he slept on the sofa. She was tempted to say, Like a baby. But she reconnected this to her feeling of lightness and called it tiredness instead of peace. He said nearly a word. He said nothing, in fact. What did it do to her life? She never stopped asking. The next morning, at daylight, he knocked lightly on the door. She opened it and felt him going away from her so fast, she hesitated to let him in. He looked glad though. Gladder than all the times she'd known him. He kissed her forehead and said,”Thank you for a good night.” She was stunned at his observation, a summation of a perfectly delightful evening, she realises now. Although at that time, it was too shocking to consider such stillness, such poise. Now weeks later, he exhibits this calmness she's beginning to feel in herself quite animatedly. He said, “Haven't seen you looking so vivid.” This time he said something almost descriptive, almost her. |
