Charmaine Sia - Untitled


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★ ★ ★ He comes in the night, when the fog envelops her. When the mist shrouds the jewels of the dark from sight, and all she is left to depend on are the fireflies that tumble about in their merry spiral. He comes, unnoticed, unanticipated, as he watches her from a distance. The way she examines a withered leaf, talks to a grasshopper, feels the rough bark against her delicate hands. He thought that he had lost all that years ago, but perhaps… Some thoughts are better left incomplete. He approaches, as always, with the one word that cannot possibly go wrong: “Hello.” She looks up, almost surprised, but not quite. “Oh. Hello.” Some things never change. He has given up searching for a conversation starter. If there were one, he would have used it long ago, but today there is none, and he knows that she knows it. So be it, he decides; he is almost used to it. There is something in her perceptive gaze, something he cannot quite place, something which reminds him of the hallowed expression he knows he once had many years ago. Yet, it is not for herself, he knows. It is for someone else. But he does not ask whom. She glimpses the pensive look he wears, and she smiles. He wonders, transiently, what she finds amusing about the situation, but then he sweeps the thought away. Trust is enough. Today she fiddles with an aster she has found, as she studies him intermittently. He doesn’t know just what she could possibly learn from him, but he knows—somehow—that she does, and so he lets her. Meanwhile, he is content merely to reminisce: of the owls that accompany their nocturnal vigils, of the seasons that have passed since their first encounter, of the meteor shower one sublime, incredible night. Sometimes other memories return, of days long past and never to return. He lives in the past—it’s detestable, he knows, but he can’t help it, and to a certain extent he’d prefer that it remain that way—and she lets him. Sometimes she brings him into the present. Sometimes he wonders if she’d rather be at the riverside instead, watching the ships glide by. But it’d take too much labour for him to journey there, and so he never does. She is a creature of the water, he knows, while he is a child of the woods, but she never once points it out, and for that he is glad. Sometimes she speaks—too ardently—of the beings of the deep, and he writhes in jealousy, but he is aware that the aggrieved expression in his eyes injures her even more, and somehow it doesn’t seem so bad anymore. He contemplates, really, if he could ever keep her in the forest just for a day, to show her its beauty in the brilliance of day—splendour too abundant to hoard for himself. But it is futile to fantasise too much, he knows; that ultimately, all his hopes will shatter into illusion. And so he dares not to dream. She looks at him with a curious countenance, as though she has read the innermost thoughts of his soul. Somehow he doesn’t feel embarrassed; he knows that she will never mention them. And that she will understand. “A penny for your thoughts,” he says. She shakes her head gently, a melancholy smile on her face. He knows that if he prods her, she will divulge her thoughts, but he’s learnt to accept that she’s thought through what she will say to him more than to anyone else. He allows them to lapse back into the stillness of the night. He’s thought of a conversation starter, but while he’d rashly use it on almost any other day, he puts it away today, preferring to observe her silently as she fingers the aster. He wonders, momentarily, whether this will turn out like most other days—full of promise, but never developed the way he desires to. Almost too soon a raccoon skitters past, an arbitrary event that signals it is time for her to leave. They exchange their farewell as ordinarily as their greetings, except that she almost always gives him a bright smile before she departs. He lingers in the coppice for a few moments after she leaves, recollecting the events of the night, although he never tells her so. A part of him wonders if she does the same, in a little corner too far away for him to spot, but the thought is too trivial to remain for long. Then he goes as he came. There are other things he must do, but she doesn’t need to know that. And there is always tomorrow.

Copyright © Charmaine Sia

★
★ ★

He comes in the night, when the fog envelops her. When the mist shrouds the jewels of the dark from sight, and all she is left to depend on are the fireflies that tumble about in their merry spiral.

He comes, unnoticed, unanticipated, as he watches her from a distance. The way she examines a withered leaf, talks to a grasshopper, feels the rough bark against her delicate hands. He thought that he had lost all that years ago, but perhaps…

Some thoughts are better left incomplete. He approaches, as always, with the one word that cannot possibly go wrong: “Hello.” She looks up, almost surprised, but not quite.

“Oh. Hello.” Some things never change.

He has given up searching for a conversation starter. If there were one, he would have used it long ago, but today there is none, and he knows that she knows it. So be it, he decides; he is almost used to it.

There is something in her perceptive gaze, something he cannot quite place, something which reminds him of the hallowed expression he knows he once had many years ago. Yet, it is not for herself, he knows. It is for someone else. But he does not ask whom.

She glimpses the pensive look he wears, and she smiles. He wonders, transiently, what she finds amusing about the situation, but then he sweeps the thought away.

Trust is enough.

Today she fiddles with an aster she has found, as she studies him intermittently. He doesn’t know just what she could possibly learn from him, but he knows—somehow—that she does, and so he lets her. Meanwhile, he is content merely to reminisce: of the owls that accompany their nocturnal vigils, of the seasons that have passed since their first encounter, of the meteor shower one sublime, incredible night. Sometimes other memories return, of days long past and never to return. He lives in the past—it’s detestable, he knows, but he can’t help it, and to a certain extent he’d prefer that it remain that way—and she lets him. Sometimes she brings him into the present.

Sometimes he wonders if she’d rather be at the riverside instead, watching the ships glide by. But it’d take too much labour for him to journey there, and so he never does. She is a creature of the water, he knows, while he is a child of the woods, but she never once points it out, and for that he is glad. Sometimes she speaks—too ardently—of the beings of the deep, and he writhes in jealousy, but he is aware that the aggrieved expression in his eyes injures her even more, and somehow it doesn’t seem so bad anymore. He contemplates, really, if he could ever keep her in the forest just for a day, to show her its beauty in the brilliance of day—splendour too abundant to hoard for himself. But it is futile to fantasise too much, he knows; that ultimately, all his hopes will shatter into illusion. And so he dares not to dream.

She looks at him with a curious countenance, as though she has read the innermost thoughts of his soul. Somehow he doesn’t feel embarrassed; he knows that she will never mention them. And that she will understand.

“A penny for your thoughts,” he says.

She shakes her head gently, a melancholy smile on her face. He knows that if he prods her, she will divulge her thoughts, but he’s learnt to accept that she’s thought through what she will say to him more than to anyone else.

He allows them to lapse back into the stillness of the night. He’s thought of a conversation starter, but while he’d rashly use it on almost any other day, he puts it away today, preferring to observe her silently as she fingers the aster. He wonders, momentarily, whether this will turn out like most other days—full of promise, but never developed the way he desires to.

Almost too soon a raccoon skitters past, an arbitrary event that signals it is time for her to leave. They exchange their farewell as ordinarily as their greetings, except that she almost always gives him a bright smile before she departs.

He lingers in the coppice for a few moments after she leaves, recollecting the events of the night, although he never tells her so. A part of him wonders if she does the same, in a little corner too far away for him to spot, but the thought is too trivial to remain for long.

Then he goes as he came. There are other things he must do, but she doesn’t need to know that.

And there is always tomorrow.

★ ★ ★

★
★ ★