Anomolies
The walls were covered with paintings of lands never been seen before by either one of them. Amethyst-colored water and coral covered clouds. The sky was a hue of mandarin just thirty seconds before the sun had set completely. They took their seats in the restaurant. The silence between them became deafening. They skimmed the menus, reading every last word, translating, silently trying to pronounce the French. Their eyes read the letters but their minds cried out in agony, despair. Here they were, at their loneliest moment sitting across from their histories.
As the waiter poured water, both of their minds riffed through the ages. It was at the falls in Niagara many years ago when they scurried together through the tubes and water slides playing hide and seek, cheering each other on. The sun gleamed high above as they ran around, in circles, holding hands while they soaked up the rays flying through the water slides and tripping over their feet, jumping in circles until they became dizzy and fell on the foam mountains, intoxicated by laughter. They each took a sip.
They sat caressing the stems of their glasses with their immaculately manicured fingers. They crossed and uncrossed their legs numerous times trying to act natural and pretend that all was customary. You could hear them breathing; their hearts scurrying for air. Silence.
The bread and butter were set on the table. Both stared at their empty plates, neither attempting to reach for the appetizer, because neither was really hungry. The memories were vivid, of the sunny days in the garden when they picked flowers and gently broke off the petals to create long nails in a variety of colors. Pink for the thumb, red for the ring finger. They would sit for hours counting rocks with their long nails, pretending to be extraordinary. They would brush their hair behind their ears and watch the petals descend off as they giggled interminably. It would never rain that summer.
As the gloom of the clouds culminated over their heads, rain fell from their eyes. Without a word being said, all of their thoughts turned the deserts in their hearts into an oasis of dejection.
They remembered the summer they visited their grandparent's home. The thermometer never fell below 40 degrees Celsius. It was smoldering and suffocating and they wore the thinnest of shear clothing. Showering became as essential as breathing. They spent the days on the highest rooftop which provided an incomparable view of Lahore. They would see kites, purple and green cutting each other off, spools of thread flying through the air. Each wave of wind that brushed through their hair was a wind of blessing, and acknowledgement that the warm summer would be over soon and they would return to their normalcy with snow covered trees and French fries.
The food came and they stabbed at it. The greens were put to the side, salt and pepper was passed. They swallowed slowly, each bite savored like each memory of times past.
There was the occasion when they baked cinnamon rolls and painted the deck a shade of mahogany. The trees whistled the tunes of autumn and the cool breeze brushed against their arched backs. They devoured the desserts- each iced-coated roll, while watching the Bodyguard, the reward for a job well done. They fell asleep midway through. Head-on-Shoulders.
As the dessert menus were taken away they glanced at their watches. Two hours passed. Hardly any words uttered. Why had they come? What was to be said now that the years had passed and their lives had taken turns in perpendicular directions? What could be said of the memories?
They recalled that late evening in the car when they discussed God, and men and hopes and dreams. When shattered images of reality struck them in their backs and the mean words uttered crushed their souls. When the memories of recent days were blockaded by instruments producing cacophony. Where not a word was heard, not a statement was said that wasn't meant to be less than the truth, where the end result was the realization that they were intrinsically now different.
They had stopped confiding in each other. They would go through the motions of consideration, the other simply wouldn't understand. They wouldn't attempt because the languages were the same, the dialects, different. What had begun as a quest for love and happiness had turned into a battle for self-discovery and assertions.
So they ate in peace, spoons clicking against the coffee cups, sips being taken, sighs, just short of breath. Napkins were folded and put on the table.
The check came and they both instinctively reached for their wallets, pulling out their credit cards and quickly grabbing for the insert. With both cards in the leather folder, they waited for the other to say a word, something. Anything. But there was silence.
The waiter split the total on both cards, and gave two receipts. Both signed but neither got up. They sat, their, heads down, manicured hands folded. No eye contact.
The picture above them showed the setting of the sun, where tomorrow was painted, as another day with emerald skies and pomegranate water, where change was inevitable but the day would come nonetheless.
They got up, walked out and left, in opposite directions.
As the waiter poured water, both of their minds riffed through the ages. It was at the falls in Niagara many years ago when they scurried together through the tubes and water slides playing hide and seek, cheering each other on. The sun gleamed high above as they ran around, in circles, holding hands while they soaked up the rays flying through the water slides and tripping over their feet, jumping in circles until they became dizzy and fell on the foam mountains, intoxicated by laughter. They each took a sip.
They sat caressing the stems of their glasses with their immaculately manicured fingers. They crossed and uncrossed their legs numerous times trying to act natural and pretend that all was customary. You could hear them breathing; their hearts scurrying for air. Silence.
The bread and butter were set on the table. Both stared at their empty plates, neither attempting to reach for the appetizer, because neither was really hungry. The memories were vivid, of the sunny days in the garden when they picked flowers and gently broke off the petals to create long nails in a variety of colors. Pink for the thumb, red for the ring finger. They would sit for hours counting rocks with their long nails, pretending to be extraordinary. They would brush their hair behind their ears and watch the petals descend off as they giggled interminably. It would never rain that summer.
As the gloom of the clouds culminated over their heads, rain fell from their eyes. Without a word being said, all of their thoughts turned the deserts in their hearts into an oasis of dejection.
They remembered the summer they visited their grandparent's home. The thermometer never fell below 40 degrees Celsius. It was smoldering and suffocating and they wore the thinnest of shear clothing. Showering became as essential as breathing. They spent the days on the highest rooftop which provided an incomparable view of Lahore. They would see kites, purple and green cutting each other off, spools of thread flying through the air. Each wave of wind that brushed through their hair was a wind of blessing, and acknowledgement that the warm summer would be over soon and they would return to their normalcy with snow covered trees and French fries.
The food came and they stabbed at it. The greens were put to the side, salt and pepper was passed. They swallowed slowly, each bite savored like each memory of times past.
There was the occasion when they baked cinnamon rolls and painted the deck a shade of mahogany. The trees whistled the tunes of autumn and the cool breeze brushed against their arched backs. They devoured the desserts- each iced-coated roll, while watching the Bodyguard, the reward for a job well done. They fell asleep midway through. Head-on-Shoulders.
As the dessert menus were taken away they glanced at their watches. Two hours passed. Hardly any words uttered. Why had they come? What was to be said now that the years had passed and their lives had taken turns in perpendicular directions? What could be said of the memories?
They recalled that late evening in the car when they discussed God, and men and hopes and dreams. When shattered images of reality struck them in their backs and the mean words uttered crushed their souls. When the memories of recent days were blockaded by instruments producing cacophony. Where not a word was heard, not a statement was said that wasn't meant to be less than the truth, where the end result was the realization that they were intrinsically now different.
They had stopped confiding in each other. They would go through the motions of consideration, the other simply wouldn't understand. They wouldn't attempt because the languages were the same, the dialects, different. What had begun as a quest for love and happiness had turned into a battle for self-discovery and assertions.
So they ate in peace, spoons clicking against the coffee cups, sips being taken, sighs, just short of breath. Napkins were folded and put on the table.
The check came and they both instinctively reached for their wallets, pulling out their credit cards and quickly grabbing for the insert. With both cards in the leather folder, they waited for the other to say a word, something. Anything. But there was silence.
The waiter split the total on both cards, and gave two receipts. Both signed but neither got up. They sat, their, heads down, manicured hands folded. No eye contact.
The picture above them showed the setting of the sun, where tomorrow was painted, as another day with emerald skies and pomegranate water, where change was inevitable but the day would come nonetheless.
They got up, walked out and left, in opposite directions.
posted by Rabia at 11:08 AM
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