THE GOOD MOTHER

“You sure?”

“He has her lips”, he observed. “Don’t you-”

“You look at her lips?”

“Oh, don’t tell me-”

“I’m positive.”

And he pulled out a page from a magazine folded into eighths from inside his pocket, unfurled it for him to see and held it beside the face of the one in focus, who closed his eyes, unable to bear the effect anymore.

“See?”

“Wow.”

“This is insane…” he remarked.

He turned to leave, apparently having had enough of the whole thing, seeing it was no fire-drill for him to get out of it unscathed. There were emotions (as ironical as it could sound) and emotions can get hurt wherever they exist, needless to say. He was addressed before he fled the scene, forced to turn around fighting tears of frustration.

“Can you…?”

He was extended a pen along with the piece of paper, now back to being folded. What was intended needn’t be said for it was more than understood. They stood up to leave.

“So…” the politer one hesitated. “We’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

The boy looked down, biting his lower lip.

xxxxxxxx

“So… Good day today?”

“Mhmm.”

“That’s nice to know.”

He stopped for a moment before he made a move on it, thinking he could probably lie to them the next day saying she refused. But maybe the world knew more about her than he did so he decided to give it to her all the same, a nicety in gratitude to her for collecting him from school that day. He thrust his hand down his pants.

“Mom”, he said.

She knew what was to happen for she didn’t quite seem alien to the whole thing. She sighed.

“Honey”, she shook her head, squeezing her brow (or what was left of it). “Haven’t I-?”

“I swear…” he said, handing the pen and the page to her. “I haven’t seen it.”

She took it in hand, a worried look playing around her eyes. It wasn’t the first time that she had felt that particular piece of paper in hand. It wasn’t the first time she had seen what was on it either. She almost smiled.

xxxxxxxx

“I’ll be back in a couple, love”, she said as she dropped him home. “Take care.”

The boy tucked the page (that now had her clothed in her autograph and a pair of hearts) back where he brought it out from and as he walked towards home, the door was slammed shut and the car sped out through the gate. There was quite a bout of silence before she exclaimed, looking at her watch.

“Shit!” she said. “I’m late.”

REPLAY

“Naked?”

“I swear, it’s never happened before.”

It was pointless to have made that point, for neither was the girl in question his daughter, nor was she one from a shrink, familiarity ruled out in this respect. The one in control was being excessively involved, a sign of interest than perversion, while the one out of it all looked eager, although uncertain, about telling this man everything that crossed his mind at that point of time.

“Never before?” the tone was disbelieving.

“Of course not!” he said. “But yes, and no… not naked”, he added at the sight of raised eyebrows.

“Not naked…”

“Not naked.”

He could have won cases if the shake of one’s head was counted as circumstantial evidence, and he replicated the same in this post-hypnotic scenario.

“Walls, walks, schoolrooms, places I have no clue about…”

“Have you seen her before?” he enquired, and on receiving a scoff, said “Well, you know what-”

“You’re kidding me.”

He stroked his brow. “You’ve got to open-”

“She’s the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen”, he confirmed. “And that’s not just a figure of speech.”

He made a circle around him, tracing with feet than fingers, and that prompted the one in the easy-chair to come up with something that sounded sensible enough to him, which really wasn’t too big a thing.

“You have a daughter?”

“I have a wife”, he said.

“I’ve never thought I’d feel like this”, he began, “and it’s not like I haven’t felt this before, it’s just… a novelty that’s strange, you know. Ancient Déjà vu, something like that”, he looked at him.

“I’m not crashing your party”, he clarified. “Take me through dessert.”

He smiled, cringing his eyes because he remembered Will Hunting prick Sean Maguire with a statement that went like, ‘You talk too much for one, for heaven’s sake’ and used that as a sort of reflex arc to get himself off the chair with his back to the man, preparing for the poetic discourse to come.

“I’ve never felt this… this infatuated”, he said. “I mean… I think this is not good and that scares me, you know, it’s like… I was what I ought to be to her and now I’d probably be something else and yeah, ‘Déjà vu’!” He squeezed the root of nose. “Just… just look at my hands, man.”

The mind-man clicked his tongue seeing it tremble and twitch beyond normalcy.

“What do you want to do about it?”

“Well…” he shrugged, smiling.

“Yeah”, he acknowledged. “But still, do you think-”

“I don’t know”, the admittance was solemn with weight of heart. “Hope she does.”

A LITTLE LESS CONVERSATION

Elvis Presley was a man, head, hat and hairy hands. Men woo women, don’t understand. There’s lesser to her than interpreted, extrapolation makes her worse. Smoking is respiratory, lipstick isn’t finesse. Pretty doesn’t mean blonde, dark hair isn’t dull. To drink isn’t to defeat, lack of conscience is a memory loss. Fountains are potable, and I’m a man.

“Twenty fifth”, she smiled, looking distant. “Yours?”

“Seventy nine”, she replied, indifferently.

“Minty?”

“Orange”, she shook her head. “I doubt if he stood your queue.”

“Back-packer”, she tried recollecting. “Lopsided glasses, po-”

“-ked my eye taking it off”, she turned to her, awestruck. 

“Last-moment nibble!”

“Heck, I denied payment”, they said together.

Moments of disbelief and silence, repentance and a touch of envy.

“How’s your mother?”

“Good”, she nodded.

“Out of hospital?”

“Hardly”, she said. “All boxes taken, none to spare.”

“Oh?” she looked querulously. “Oh!”

“Blocks”, she shrugged. “Not to mention cholesterol.”

“Could use some, though”, she said, squeezing skinny sides.

“I’d sell if I could”, she shrugged again. “Or pro bono.”

“Don’t you start there...”

“I hate them too”, she agreed. “Can’t beat Hitchcock.”

She hummed ‘Vertigo’ only to halt instantly. She caught her eye, and she caught hers. Moment after the next had them walk again.

“Catchy tunes…”

“Vices”, she flared up. “We understand, you buy!”

“I download”, she clarified. “Doesn’t make me better, though.”

“I see right through.”

“Die to know what’s there”, she said. “Knowledge is death.”

“Clarity is a single life”, she complied. “Lesbian, if lucky.”

They kissed, a pat on the (lower) back and a stroke of hair as additives. Both smiled, corrected falling handbags and wiped the rain off their faces.

“So…” she cleared her throat. “You buried-”

“She’s burning hers.”

“Oh?” re-creation, not recap. “Oh!”

“Indoors”, she walked on. “Fire without smoke.”

“Like one?” she extended a roll.

“Burn to get a taste of it”, she cringed. “Depresses me.”

“There’s my bus”, she pointed, expectantly.

“I fly, girl…”

They kissed again, this time deeper than before. Romanticism is nihilistic, cameras lie and obscenity, as we all must know by now, is ‘point of view’.

DUO

They’re twins, which means you’ve got to take for granted that they’re exactly, unimaginably identical, have the same metabolism (more or less), same fitness levels, identical workout programs, same stamina, sustenance, the same number of muscles in the same configuration, and the same amount of bones of course. Spouses (girlfriends included) are numb to individual scents, character in general and penis sizes. One of them could have bigger feet, but that wouldn’t stop the other from wearing the same pair of shoes (or an identical pair if required, equally wrinkled, equally smooth).

A higher count doesn’t imply a sequel, and it’s past midnight.

“One hour”, he said pointedly.

“Lydia-”

“Lydia?”

He stopped, dead. “Don’t tell me-”

“It’s Friday.”

Twin One stood outside the park which Twin two had to cut across (to save time). Walk transfer from green to grey, footsteps muffled by the motorway. Secrecy doesn’t imply quiet, for not all the loudness is heard. Except mutually, of course.

“She was surprised.”

“I said I had work.”

“No wonder then-”

Two men identical in all aspects, but it’s not a paparazzi world to stand up and make proofs. And they just walked along.

“And yeah”, Twin One said, hands in pockets, “Tara-”

“I’ll deal with it”, came the response, although grave.

“You know I’ll miss her too”, he replied. “And not to mention Her-”

“-quirk in colour-tones?”

“-bie Hancock.”

Curious look on the face, unfettered look to the ground observed.

“What made your day?”

“Ammo hunt”, he replied. “Wild goose chase, what made yours?”

“Breaking and Entering, busted stuff, frenzies”, he sulked. “Got it all?”

He nodded. “Loudest yet: My place.”

“You mean my place?”

They paused for a while, switching positions. “Yeah, your place.”

“Good”, they said together, looking down.

Distant looks don’t always suggest pensive thought. Face-to-face could sometimes mean unconscious spontaneity.

“The organization...”

“The thrill...”

“Life’s good”, he said and looked at his brother. “You’re good.”

“No”, came the reply. “We’re good.”

Roads diverged, both taken. ‘He’ took the one ‘he’ took before, and ‘he’ took the one which ‘he’ came from, pats on the back past.

“Mind the sniffer!” he shouted. “We smell.”

“And Suzanna!” he shouted back, stopping. “Smells good!”

He smiled, he smiled, and they both left. One to the right, and one to the left of his left.

PERFECT SENSE

“The thing is… I’ve played a sport for more than half of my life.”

“So?”

“So”, I said, “you’re only saying this-”

“Yes.”

I was walking on a road that would nauseate me at other times and I knew I was doing it only because she was doing it, and that’s not sacrificial or ‘making do’, and I’m not ‘conforming’ either. People come in two kinds – like and dislike, and sure there’s the in-between but that’s the point: They’re not people at all. And needless to say, like and hate are two different frames of mind, not necessarily contradictory or mutually-exclusive so I can just be sure about the ‘frames of mind’ because it would be too chaotic to like something and hate it too, that points at duality of mind, a mental multitask that’s utter bullshit. My point is that to get to liking something you’ve hated for long, well… It’s just an evolution and every person is perfectly capable of that.

“No”, I shook my head. “I can’t do it.”

“Why not?” she smiled at me, curiously.

“Well…” I shrugged, “I guess I’m not that masturbatory.”

Her laugh was more of a reaction than anything I could have asked for, in response to which I looked away grinning, shaking my head in disbelief at the nonsense I had just said.

“But”, I tried rectifying my position. “But… Knowledge is, perfect sense.”

She nodded as her hair nodded with her. “Knowledge is perfect sense.”

You should have looked at her. I mean, I can still be placed under the allegation that this is fleeting, this notion of her that I had cemented in my mind and you could say that cement dissolves, given its time and space, but you should have looked at her. ‘Kes’, and incredibly so.

I looked at my wristwatch, something I wore just to highlight the occasion.

“I lost my old wristwatch”, I said to her, still looking at it. “I never threw it away.”

“You shouldn’t compare-”

“No I’m not”, I shook my head again, looking at her. “I don’t have a compulsive mind, it takes its time… I’m sorry about that.”

She could see that I was fighting emotion, maybe even tears but this was a test. Even if she had meant exactly she said and nothing less, this was a test.

“You get accustomed”, I began, strained, and I decided then to not take the bend. “Getting used to love isn’t reason enough to quit, is it?” I asked her while she quietly hummed ‘The thrill is gone’ – too suggestive for me to take. I had stopped walking and she figured that out after a couple of steps.

“I’ll see you tomorrow”, I said, looking down.

And I could visualize her being incredulous with her smile.

SOLO

Nothing meant, everything implied, and that doesn’t imply assumption but only just what is implied: Implication. Conversations don’t need glasses or wine and a table’s only for one who doesn’t know where he should put his hands; pockets hide incompetent gesticulation, longer hair shows lesser face and that’s lesser space you could be seen sweating out of. Glasses are meant to come in cheap, for photo chromatic acts against utility, and the source of light isn’t always the moon or a light-bulb or a crystal chandelier: There do exist sub-level sources and the sun could be one if not distinctly seen.

A conversation doesn’t necessarily call for two or more parties.

“How about a beer?”

“You drink?”

“You don’t?”

A chair’s occupied while another’s let free, a physical demonstration of equilibrium. The beer order was never public and hence was never in the same vicinity as ‘confusing’.

“You should wear an eye-patch.”

“I was thinking lilac.”

“Beige”, he stressed. “Quit the knee-jerk.”

“More ankle and shin…”

“…and calf muscle.”

“And calf muscle, yeah.”

The moment of publicizing personal interest came around, the argument being necessity rather than roast & ground or human-made.

“Caffeine”, I shook my head. “I’m a little Stuart there.”

“Harry Tuttle”, he said, humming the ‘Brazil’ tune.

“Nah, it’s kind of more Daniel Dunne.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“What’re you talking about?”

“Blow some smoke”, he said. “I’d get you that.”

“It’s the fire that’s missing”, I said. “Not the smoke.”

And he blew some himself, although I’ve never seen him take in any. The meandering prospect of time limit crashes caught up with both, a second in between.

“Monday night”, he said, getting there first.

“Morning to come.”

“What’s the music tell you?”

“Jazz”, I said. “Or wait… Plantation blues.”

“You’re extinct.”

“And you’re not my woman.”

I stood up, watered myself with both the glasses, straightened his chair, set my hair right, laughed at his and walked my way in as opposed to an outside cliché.

MAN ON THE SIDE

"The King", she said.

I said "I'm right here. But I can't do the moonwalk."

Is this sadness, though? I mean, every word said appears to be heftily laden with doubt and that's doubt beyond overrule, because while to overrule is completely up to oneself, at a personal level, this doubt had nothing to do with me, and everything to do with her, or it had everything to do with me and she had nothing in it whatsoever, and since there is a nothingness and an accompanying completeness in existence, there can never be a part-clarification. And to clarify in entirety would still remain at the place where it's always been: forever a foot from me.

"Poetic romance", I said. "Heard he's so very giving that he overshoots it."

"To each, his own", she said.

This is not an email conversation. And that means I can see her, face to back, for she's always faced away from me whenever we've spoken and maybe that's because that's the part of her I admire most, not out of my fetish but her exceptionality. Particularly those moments in front of the mirror, doing something I dislike but not of her, for she is someone who could possibly turn me, making me like it, for I would somehow detach the glossiness from it, sizing it up to be purely an act of necessity, not of beautification of outer self, but as a stronghold on inner confidence that only merely shows on the surface. Or maybe I would like it only because she does it, and that would be reason enough for me.

"If that's the case", I lazed, "then you have just cracked the judicial system."

I sniffed, not letting go of the half-smile that so supposedly reinforces me and I reinforced it with this twitchy stiffening of my left jaw that had strangely become habitual. And I had just said something that made me earn a look from her, from under the very same eyebrows that help cool her burning eyes (I know, I know!).

"What of Gandhi?" she questioned. "What about Lewis Carroll?"

"What about you?"

She paused, open-mouthed, fighting with all her feminine brute to snub the smile that tried to show, as the obvious eventually came out.

"Do you do this as a profession?"

"You know I don't", I smiled.

"Well", she turned back to the mirror, still stubborn, "how much do I know then, right?"

"Well", I mimicked her. "You know about the King, you know about Gandhi, you know about Lewis Carroll, and oh, you know I'm a half-geek who thinks he's just a tenth of what you are."

I bit my lip in the same "Let's see you pull this one off" kind of way traditionalized by Ethan Hawke in 'Before Sunrise', and I was struck by this thought that told me I was pushing this whole 'Being a bundle of everyone else but myself' thing. She remained quiet, the room was dark but I could feel the heat of her breath and the rush of her blood and that made me feel so like a mosquito all of a sudden, pointlessly buzzing about her.

"Excuse me Miss Busybody", I almost sang. "Could you pencil me in?"

She laughed and laughed and laughed, and I realized that I could actually regret what I say.

"I know", I sighed, as she proved wrong an assumption of mine, being incessant with her laughter.

"Hey.." she said as she subsided. "Study beckons. I'd see you then?"

"Yeah well", I paused. "Sure."

"Ta Ta."

And she hung up.

I fell on my bed, rolled on it, punched a pillow and thought that if the best I could currently do was to quote an obvious John Mayer, then I clearly needed a life.

But then again, wouldn't she always have said the first goodbye?

THE SECRET GARDEN.

“I can’t be with you.”

“No.”

“I can’t.”

I breathed deep. “I want you to reconsider that.”

“What?”

“I want you to think about what you said, and not say it again.”

I don’t know if she complied, but she didn’t speak beyond, at least for the while that could be called ‘subsequent’. We weren’t eating, it wasn’t a dinner date that went wrong, because I don’t even know if it was going wrong or if it was heading exactly where I wanted it to head. But then again, I couldn’t afford a ‘tongue-in-cheek’; I couldn’t resist one either. I was reminded that it was turning out to be one of those times when my hand ceases to be part of me, a part my mind could will. I went for her forehead, got to her cheek, but a few strands of the hair that fell on her face were all I managed to grasp between my fingers: The spaces that were hers, that are.

“I don’t know how to explain…”

“I never asked you to.”

I couldn’t bring myself to loathe her tears, it’s something I had learnt out of trial and error, and I’ve always erred when it came anywhere close to hating anything that was hers. The tip of my index finger was all that acted and a dew of her teardrop was all it caught, a speck and its rainbow to some lucky fly. She wasn’t guilty, she never looked down, she never used to. Always the cause, never the act: she ghost-wrote me. She still does, and I guess she would as long as I exist, for her lifetime is too much to ask for. Too long a time in the clouds, too much of summer, too much of shine; too much of ‘ever-last’.

“This guy…” she began. I swore I could have cried, but a half a smile is the closest I got to it. “He…”

I looked down at the grass. Not that I wished I were as fleeting, so that I could boast of a whole life with her, but because I couldn’t stop a prospective laugh that threatened to show if I looked at her shuttling eyes. Speaking would be an even worse give-away, while the silence could hurt her. But I was helpless to be otherwise, pretending I was only listening to ‘Idiot Wind’ and not seeing it live.

“All you…” she said, shaking her head. “All you…”

I couldn’t even nod.

“What are you doing?” I wished I could stop her sobs. “What are you even doing?” She shook her head again. “Cynical. So, so cynical.”

“So are you.” I bit my lip.

She shook her head again: I was challenging her. Big deal, she always exhausted me.

“A second’s plunge in fire, dead,

a breath of heaven, letter-sent;

an apple of mine, in moonlit eyes,

the only times that I’m alive…”

She shrugged her shoulders and looked away, as I tried to find the smile I framed. I’ve never wanted to say a lot of things to her, she never fancied dessert, this dinner-woman with a meal of a mind that she hogged all by herself. Still I did say this because it needed to be said and she was too close to miss it, even if whispered.

“Mere minutes, you know…” I said as I hugged her. “And you shouldn’t demand from the dead, that’s like a violation, I could sue you for that.”

She shook her head again before she burned my eyes: I should have settled for the top of her head.

“I’ll see if you can pull these threads apart.”

And I won't tell you how long I kissed her, in this losing game that I played.