espeoncat

on the road home

the moon, a pockmarked disc suspended in the night sky. a quiet evening passes by, with only the sound of crickets and the hum of streetlamps to rustle its soft tranquility. the last wispy embers of summer linger in the air, floating diodes that litter the expanse of shaded darkness. and youre here next to me, slippers flip-flopping, kicking up rocks all over the place. your hair, still wet from the bathhouse, shimmers in the soft glow of summer. youre telling me about your day in between mouthfuls of yoghurt, about how your boss had behaved like a complete douche canoe. the windless night really carries your voice around, echoing throughout the houses and shops as you get increasingly animated. and i smile at how my shirt seems a tad too big for you, how you have a spring in your step and excitement in your eyes as you talk on and on. you stop and peer at me through narrowed eyes, asking if your misery is all that amusing to me. the crickets are still chirping away, with the low rumble of a faraway train and a few hoots of a friendly owl to accompany us. i offer no reply, only sticking my tongue out and walking just a few steps closer next to you. around us is an aura of warmth and happiness, undisturbed by the fuzzy darkness. and so we cross threshold after threshold of orange incandescence, each step bringing us closer home.

and closer to each other.

why dont you like me

when i came back from work, i found you sitting at my dining table. your eyes were red and puffy, and a wall of tissues surrounded you. my cat was sitting in your lap, staring. you smiled when i opened the door and said that it took me long enough. sighing, i replied that dinner was nothing special. you said that it was okay, but your body language betrayed you. of course it wasn't, but i soundlessly entered the kitchen anyways.

after dinner, we cuddled in my bedroom. you talked of your recently, just-dumped-3-hours-before ex, talked of how much of an asshole he was, and how unromantic and completely disgusting he had been over the past few months. i had interjected and offered you a quick solution. how about you stop dating heartless jerks for a change, i whispered, head against yours. you laughed and said that all men were jerks, and that you didn't quite have a choice since you weren't born a lesbian, now were you? after that, we fell silent and just lay there, two bodies in stasis. there was no moonlight that night, just a still darkness blanketing over us. after a long period of silence, i turned over to you and told you that i loved you. you smiled, gave me a kiss, and said that you loved me too. my chest had felt strangely tight, but the words i wanted to say refused to come out, probably because i already knew your answer. instead, my hot tears overflowed as i lay there with you in my arms.

and with that, a silent august night filled with restless sleep passed by us once again.

chocolatl

the slight sounds of the cafe surround me. almost serene in its stillness, but the ever so subtle tinkling of silverware against teacups rustle the warmth of this interior. it is dark in here, save for the singular orange lamp that illuminates the wooden establishment. a homely place, as the earthy scent of wooden walls and the bitter aroma of good coffee swirls together, natural aromatherapy on this white christmas night. a light snowfall covers the rest of the city in alabaster. encasing it slowly in a shaded marble sheen, white snow against the black and yellow of lamplights and darkness.

people flow across the streets, carrying bags of gifts and Christmas log cakes. the plastic and paper receptacles stands out starkly against the plain white snowscape, colouring the windows of the cafe in a kaleidoscope of happiness. i smile at how they all seem to have an eagerness in their step and warmth in their hearts, and a slight shock passes through me. their emotions are written so clearly in their eyes and their movements, that even i could feel it. i guess im not as bad as i think i am. that thought comforts me, and i smile.

picking up my slab of metal and glass, its pockmarked surface smudged with a slight oiliness, i click its power button. 11:59. 0 new notifications. the hot chocolate i ordered isn't very hot any more. the chocolate wafer lying in its depths, soggy and untouched. staring out again at the emptying street, i wonder how it feels like to be that couple holding hands, scarfs wrapped around each other, bags on their arms. i wonder how it feels like to not be lonely.

oh wonder. another christmas, another year gone.

the street is empty now. the waiter comes over to take my last order. i simply smile at him and hand him the bill.

my body is made of crushed little stars

the nighttime wind is cool against my cheeks, whipping my hair around me like an aura of black. apartment blocks line up like dominos before me, their black, unwashed windows reflecting a faint, grimy image of the city. watching the lone sedan run the red light on the empty street, feeling the first few droplets of rain slide through my hair, i close my eyes and let my emotions overflow. many maybes swirl around me, an impermanent and invisible fog of regret and denial. are these tears or just rain? i cannot tell. hot and cold drops of crystallised air. they feel comforting to have on my cheeks, a reminder that im alive and you're not.

hey. your familiar voice rings out. keeping my eyes closed, feeling the tugging of the wind in my hair and the drizzle of rain against my skin, the demons in my mind fall unexpectedly quiet. it feels just a tiny bit warmer with you next to me. you wrap your arms around me, and we stand there on the rooftop in December, savouring the silence of the night and the chilliness in the air.

do you think we'll be able to become proper adults? there's an imperceptible tremor in your whisper. your insecurity and fear is leaking again. i assume mine is too, for your grip on me tightens by a fraction of a finger.

sure we will, no problem. i gently release your hands from my sweater and slip mine into them. they feel scarily cold and dry.

it's you and me we're talking about, after all. i murmur. hand in hand, we face the start of the new decade together. and i know that as long as i am with you, everything will be alright. that's what friends are for, after all.

yeah. your whisper sounds loud in the echoing stillness of this Christmas day. i sigh, wisps of condensation disappearing into the night.

merry christmas, krystal.

greyscale

we were two beings, suspended in the murky darkness. soft moonlight lent a ghostly lightness to the living room. our shadows were faded against the black, like two shadow puppets whose outlines were indistinct against a weak light source. there was a light breeze coming in from the open balcony windows. the fresh smell of midnight with a tinge of the morning to come.

she sat across from me, clutching the mug so tightly that her knuckles were whiter than a ghost's. her eyes were shaded in the dark, pale face surprisingly expressionless. hour old coffee, cold to the tongue. acidic and acerbic, lying silent and still in the cup like a starved, dead lizard carcass. same colour and taste. we had an eternity to waste, with the moon and the stars as our judge and jury. a lack of colour and sound stretched the space time between us out, flattening it out like pizza dough and then hanging it over us, a cloud of yeast. the silence heavy, shades of the greyish night collapsing and swirling together like a dizzying black and white palette. my body refused to move. to be exact, I didn't know what to do. inaction compounded inaction. it had been weeks since we last saw each other, and that was to finish up the paperwork. after that, everything else was a blur. so much so that suddenly now, her face was foreign to me.

she shakily put down the cup. her hands looked much skinnier than before, especially without it. a little pinch, heart wasp buzzing around in my chest again. it stung again and again, agitated. wordlessly grabbing my pack of cigarettes, she got up and walked over to the balcony. without the wind making up for the quiet, my thoughts grew restless and loud. fractured memories blended in with my present and future. i closed my eyes.

allowing the tiredness to wash over me, i breathed in her bitter tobacco smoke and felt the first tears come.

soft voices surround me. eyelids heavy, body sluggish, brain still slow, unsure if this was a dream, i strain my ears. there is silence, with only the whirl of the heater somewhere to my right. my eyelids are coloured a light yellow, with patches of black flickering. dazed, i wonder if the balcony windows are open. that would be weird, because christmas is nearly here, isn't it? that means its snowing, and its cold, and stuff, and...? half awake, yet not really, i vaguely feel a sharp pain pressing against my ears. it is there until it suddenly isn't anymore, and i murmur a thanks in spite of my groggy self.

warm. warm. everything feels so warm and snuggly. its like i'm at home again, but better and cozier. “you're crushing your book under your own weight, idiot.” a voice, sounding far away. there is a chill in the morning air, but it somehow feels like spring inside here. my eyelids open just a crack. you're here lying beside me, my glasses looking amusedly out of place on your face. they reflect the winter sun, their soft rays rousing me from a good night's sleep.

“good morning,” you smile. your hand, big and warm, gives mine a firm squeeze. i wanted to give my usual reply, but today i just smile. some mornings are different. just some, but they're all worth it.

and i sure as hell hope you are, too.

what am i to you?

you clutched the paper in your hand, eyes bloodshot and wide. you knew that if you even moved an inch, the tears would start flowing freely, like floodwaters bursting forth from a cheaply built dam. so you just sat there, stone-willed in your desire to not show even a sliver of emotion. stoic and still, your hand as immovable as sculpted metal, that absorbs rather than reflect the artificial lighting.

i stared into your eyes. they were dilated in anger, anguish. your very soul was screaming through the windows of brown. soft loamy umber, rolled into a tiny sphere and shoved into that prison of white and red. undulating and oscillating between the two colours, never mixing, refusing to blend together into pink, refusing to mellow out. they quivered and shook in that runny whiteness, like your very being was slamming against it from the other side, trying to get out, to escape reality. and for the first time since i've known you, i wavered.

a night owl bus rumbled past on the street outside. the windows grumbled in irritation, our cups trembled fearfully. gradually settling down into a resigned silence that spreads and blankets us and everything between, like a cloud of dust falling, black snow billowing after a building's scheduled demolition. i looked away, unable to hold her burning gaze. the lights inside seemed dimmer somehow, but still white and sterile, as if the photons were scalpels wielded by surgeons and they were slicing deep into my heart and mind, making me question my decisions and fuckups again and again.

instead, i looked outside to the softer, yellow glow of the lamplights that illuminated the winter darkness. somehow, outside seemed warmer than here, where your gaze accuses me, accosts me, reaches their arms out to grab at me and shake me and question me asking me why why why.

the rattle of metal on glass, grating against my flesh, pulled me back to you. your palm rested squarely on it. deep breaths, the rise and fall of your chest. i could hear the breaking and unbreaking of your heart, step by step as it was dismantled and then put back together again over and over as you, the shutters to your fibrous being resolutely pulled shut, protected your head succumbing to the echoes of it. you reached into your handbag for your pen, the fountain pen that i had gifted you, forever ago, when we were happy and content and at peace with our insecurities and imperfections.

when we had each other and thought we understood it all. of how we were still in awe at how our pieces fit perfectly together, sliding and locking into place. never to be broken and torn apart by anything, because we were made for each other and nothing, nothing could take this away from us.

i hope you're happy with her. it was no longer accusatory. no longer angry. just resigned, and beneath it all a sorrow that threatened to overwhelm. but i knew that you kept it in check, as you always did, for you and i in our last few moments.

you slid the papers across to me. our eyes met, and you smile. it wasn't one of our smiles. not the same smile you and i shared at every dinner table, no matter how bad our day had been. the same smile that i had gotten used to and taken for granted for the past 2 years. this one stretched out across your lips, like the melting canopy of alabaster snow washing down the rooftops after winter's first frost-fall. it dissipated in the glaring headlights of the car that groaned past.

the ring you always wore wasn't on your finger anymore.

goodbye. your voice cracked. that tremulous voice was so unlike you that i nearly broke out in a grin. instead, my eyes started watering.

i'm sorry. the murmur escaped my lips before i could stop myself. but my voice could not reach you in time. the bell that hung on the entrance rang a bit too cheerfully, its bright overtones twinkling and shaking the silence out of the still air in this dark cafe.

my hands moved automatically in an attempt to cover my pain and guilt. the wetness was hot to my touch, and outside i heard your sobs pierce the cold silence of the night.

curry1

the room is small, but well organised. a kitchen sink stands opposite the large balcony windows. if one were to peer out, one would make out the scattered treetops and a few bungalows here and there, before the land opens out into a wide expanse of water, the lake shimmering white in the warm spring sun.

a few tribal masks, a small bookshelf with classic Japanese literature, a short rack on the outside for one to dry their clothes, and the usual kitchen cutlery and cups. they line the walls of the room. it is a homely place, where the slanted rays of the sunset lightly caress the tatami flooring. a singular kotatsu sits comfortably in the center of it, its four sides lined with plush cushions, a strange sight for such a traditional looking place. it seems to beckon at us, the yellow and blue a splash of pastel in the dull-coloured room.

let me know if you need anything else, our host calls from outside the door. her clipped british accent sounds strangely out of place, garbled and alien even, after hearing weeks of Japanese. as her footsteps echo down the steps, you sigh, throw down your luggage and plop down on one of the cushions. i watch the cushion surface crumple under your weight, a ruffle spreading out, puffing up its blue surface.

the seiko clock on the wall reads 4:36pm. you look expectantly at me, cocking one eyebrow. dinner? i ask. no shit, you reply, all rough edges, voice laced with irritation. a grimace escapes my lips inadvertently, and i move to put on my sneakers.

*

shifting trees, swaying in the spring wind. their leaves make the shadows dance along to the tune of the sun and the season. we walk along in silence, each step sounding jarringly loud in the gentle silence that wraps us in. languidly simmering in the pot of time is this moderately warm spring evening, with the expanse of the empty countryside road stretching out before us. the hills loom over from behind us, the mountain gods watching our uneasy journey down the slope.

a bend in the road, a tall green sign, neatly printed japanese lettering. kanji, that was what they called it, was it? 2 weeks into japan and i still was unfamiliar with it. if you'd had realised this much, you would be amusedly disgusted. this thought brings a smile to my lips.

something hot spring to the left, you translate clumsily, looking over at me. i wordlessly turn to the left, and i hear you hurriedly jog over to keep up with me.

*

bored out of your mind, you fall back into your old habits and start humming a familiar tune. vaguely wondering where i may have heard it before, i preoccupy myself with admiring the quiet countryside sights. of how a couple of awkwardly green maple leaves litter the ground, of how the pink camellia japonica flowers gives it a sprinkle of colour. of how crisp and clean the air tastes, even this late in the evening. the smell of japanese curry drifts out from one of the houses.

two drifters off to see the world, i suddenly found myself singing along to it. you're beside me now, still humming. theres such a lot of the world to see. you're smiling, lips faintly slanting upwards. we're after the same rainbow's end. the smell of curry gets stronger. the lights ahead of us seem to sparkle in the lengthening evening rays. waiting around the bend.

“my huckleberry friend,” your warmth seeps through my thin cardigan, the warmest i've felt in a long time.

curry for dinner it is, then, i announce to no one in particular, hints of a smile forming on my lips.

💐

22

soft rain. the sky shaded grey, a single streak of sunlight peeking through. light patter against the balcony railing.

her back faces me. plain, white blouse paired with a plain blue sweater. at the sink, she's washing a pair of mugs. blue. the smell, earthy and strong, fills the room. two scoops per mug, and the jar goes back into the cupboard.

i look out of the balcony window. one of the lights in the apartment across the street is on. a singular lamp light, from the looks of it, placed above their dining table. its ghostly illumination, with the rain shading it yellow, made the outside world seem unreal, ghostly, ethereal. i could see no one in their living room.

she passes me a mug. its bright blue stands out against the bland, boring roomscape. it smells strong. acidic.

the rain seems to be getting heavier. her room, slowly darkening. our lengthening shadows stretch and morph as the weak rays of sunlight peeking through sift and teleport along with the movement of the steadily blacker clouds.

she's sitting on the sofa, sifting through the haphazard pile of letters on your coffee table. the faint thumps of paper on glass accompany the fast, rhythmic taps of rain outside.

i take a sip. dark, thick, bitter. full-bodied and black. bits of undissolved powder sticking to my tongue.

i look up. she's staring at me.

“how is it?” scratching a scabbed wound, other hand holding a half opened letter, its contents peeking out. surroundings barely visible, wrapped up together in the warm darkness.

“just how i like it,” i smile.