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INFORMATION

Someone speaks softly through the horror and pain:
'Love has gone, but it could come again.'
Spring arrives quietly, warming her skin
Her heart, now red, is beating again
- Hannah Fury, 'Someone Speaks Softly'

Not a writer but a professional student. Instead I can be the jaded passer-by that caught a glimpse of a fling or a fatal mistake, a murder in the back alley, and I keep it all to myself so I don't lose any of it during the spilling from heart to paper on an unimaginary dark night. I write opinions, facts, emotions and other satisfied sentences that are the offspring of my imagination and external influences. And I do not need your validation to live, for the record.

CONTACT

FS/augustkills
FP/thepapercult
LJ/snipethedoctor
WP/electricsleeves

CREDITS

Icon: DW/tablesaw
Layout: tuesdaynight
Inspiration: DayBefore!Misery
A Drop of Sunshine.
Written on: Friday, January 8, 2010
Time: 8:19 PM

I sat patiently waiting for my order at a little table in an obscure corner of the café, partially shielded from view by a heavy scarlet curtain. I love this café. Everything here was a part of home, the home which I had left behind at my departure. The people, the sight of numerous backless stools, neatly arranged in fours around each table, the idle tittle-tattle and hushed discussions suited the atmosphere to a T. The sight and scent of freshly baked cookies and strong coffee invaded my nose, travelling all the way up to my brain and filling it with cozy home-coming thoughts, like sipping warm tea on a chilly day.

I had come in the hours before noon. The occupants of the chairs, mostly old folk, for the young had departed for school and the working class, work, were kindly souls, offering extra seating places at their table, beckoning towards me with a friendly air to come join them. It had seemed that my hope of having a quiet time for myself to soak up all the missed times and old memories from the comfort of a window were about to be shattered, if not for quick thinking on my part. With dread building inside me, as what preceded important decisions and uncomfortable situations, I shook my head, adding a touch of politeness with a slight smile. At once I felt the fog lift and pass me by, the blessing of easy breathing and like a switch being turned on, conversation between the patrons regained their volume. I sighed in relief and after much shuffling to the back, found a small table for one, with windows facing the street outside; I idly observed the people walking past with umbrellas on hand, for the clouds were an ominous grey.

The dusty windows added a touch of nostalgia and I vaguely remembered, with an aching heart, how I felt leaving my home. The place where I was born, grew up, played in. I could picture myself three years ago, when I announced my decision to leave and obtain a higher education. A rebellious, headstrong young woman who, although headstrong she was, had ideas of a perfectly planned out future bobbing within her mind in a detached way, as if she had been made for this purpose. Bit by bit as she matured they formed an intricate plan, a strategy for battle against the world for her survival, until one day, maid the ruckus of a picnic, hopes blended with much courage and smoothly it slid out from her lips. Voila! A date was set, discussions were carried out.

The day before my departure I felt a growing urge to see this town again, the town I lived in all my life yet, admittedly, knew little about. I knew only the convenience stores where I picked up sandwiches on the way to school, the playgrounds where children lose themselves in their own imagination of faraway islands and treasure-hunting pirates on sandy shores. The familiar brick-red building of the post office, standing tall and erect against this dullness of the town. The sluggish outlook of the surrounding houses seemed to drive me to sleep. (However the mundane and simple life apparently has affected that proud structure, for through the curtain of rain I glimpsed the faded building, sticking up like a twig in the mud, yet it has lost its once-shiny coat of red paint, and also, I felt, its determination to stand out like a beacon of hope had wavered.) Then, the row of shops which had never once left my mind, I remembered with fondness like the back of my hand, starting with the barber on the extreme left and ending with the bakery on the extreme right.

But I did not do much to remember these places, only treaded its paths for the last time. On that day, the last day, I took a different path.

I took a walk on the outskirts of the town, leaving in my mind an imprint of what I would be leaving behind, walked the mostly deserted streets, attempting to memorise every detail of it’s dusty streets and the plain sights of people trudging home that I always took for granted. I took a walk around town, because the weather felt right.

Seeing them surrounding me, I felt a strange happiness wash over me, washing away all the efforts it took to me revisit, washing away the wistfulness (but not all could it take away). Gradually I felt like I had in the years before, like I fit into the puzzle of the quaint town, like I did like that yesterday before I set foot on the plane.

The lonely town welcomed me like it did my birth, and though no one seemed to remember me, no one smiled up at me, huddled up in my place, and no one waved nor yelled a welcome yell, it was fine with me.

My order came at last, a suspicious concoction of green liquid, with a slice of lemon and a generous heap of ice― crushed ice. I wondered why I had ordered a cold drink on a cold day.

It has begun to rain. I listened to the raindrops falling on the windowpane.

Taking a sip and tasting only sweetness, for the cold numbed my taste buds, I folded my arms on the table and laid my head on them, closing my eyes and drinking in instead the sounds and smells, the feelings conveyed with every word uttered. Colours and sights can wait; a camera lay snugly within the confines of the pockets of my blue jeans. The lacquered wood table felt smooth against my skin, giving me the impression of an acquaintance with nature. A shrill cry struck out of nowhere, a second later dissolved by a wave of laughter which subsided into the omnipresent ripples of conversation. A well-endowed waitress smiled at me as she held a tray of dirty dishes. I had no time to return her kindly gesture before she turned on her heels and vanished into the kitchen.

I think I will never forget this town, no matter which city I live in, which place I go.

It is now noon and the rain has ceased, I having spent an hour immersed in my reverie. Realising this with mild alarm I swiftly drained my glass and swept out the door of the café, the clear tinkling of an attached chime reaching my ears before I noticed my lone figure on an empty street, the friendly camaraderie now only seen but not heard through the dusty windows.

The inside of my mouth tasted still of that green drink, and the smell of freshly baked cookies and coffee lingered within my nose and in my memory. I looked back at the café. If I squint, I could just, but barely, make out the faint image of the smiling waitress.

I took a walk around town, because the weather felt right.

-END-

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