The End of Words
1. Doll
I stabbed the open notebook repeatedly as if it were to give me answers, then took a glance at my surroundings. There was nothing to give me ideas. The only thing that kept me there was the scent of coffee and the pleasant sounds that I could hear around me. Strangely pleasant. The talking of many people at the same time can be annoying, but they were calming for me. That and the sounds of glass on wooden tables, and mugs touching plates. However, a poem about that was something I yet couldn't trust myself to make meaningful.
The glass door was pushed and I turned to look at the person entering. First thing I noticed was chin-length red hair with bangs. Since I was in America I had seen some other redheads before, but she in particular had pretty, child-like features: Round face, big eyes and big flushed cheeks. For a moment I did suspect she was a teen, but her heels were too high and expertly walked on to make me think she was any younger than twenty. She was frowning slightly, and it seemed it was her neutral face. I stared at her until I felt she was going to look back at me, since she was looking around the place.
She was by herself, and when she had walked past me and gone to the counter, I picked the pen I hadn't realised I'd dropped. I started writing, not needing to take my eyes off her to write. It was hard to adopt the talent, but I could write clearly without looking at the paper. Some seconds passed. She'd ordered something with 'mocha' in the name and smiled, before turning her back at the counter and crossing her arms.
Even though I had only one line written, I didn't feel hopeless, because she apparently was staying. She sat three seats from me, on a sofa, and I felt it was the most convenient time to look at her fully. The way her outfit was put together —she was wearing a short sky-blue skirt and a white blouse with lace details— put the word 'doll' into my work. I smiled at the feeling that all writers strive for, that one of finding the ideal word for something.
My notes were:
«One thing I've predicted... ? ...Doll ? »
I wanted to use that last word as a metaphor for something. Maybe social, personal, whatever, but I still had to think on the meaning of the actual poem. Nothing too intense had happened to me lately, nor did I have any special view that I hadn't expressed yet in another work, but I needed to write another one for discipline, to be productive. My last poem had been written several weeks ago, and I hadn't worked in my novel in more than three months. A source of inspiration had come from the heavens.
Her body made her look even younger, actually. She had kind of a flat chest, but her waist was noticeably smaller than her hips.
When she got called to receive her coffee, I heard her saying 'Thank you'. Her voice, although a bit deeper than I had expected, was soft, delicate. Her posture was confident and strong.
I looked back at my notebook. I still had only five words, and I was running out of time, because I had to be back at my apartment in forty-five minutes. No one was expecting me, of course. I simply had stuff to do back there, that I didn't want to leave for another day. I lived alone, I went to cafés alone, I read alone in the park and I walked in the weekdays to work, alone. Sometimes I wondered if solitude made you a better writer, or if it was some kind of requirement to have few people close to you. To add up, I was actually an only child and almost all of my kin lived in Japan.
I continued to look at her while she drank her coffee. She took out a book from her purse, then it landed on me: We were the only two in the place who were by ourselves, and seemingly with no purpose. She started reading. There was no better moment than that to stare at her as obviously and for as long as I wanted, but there was no point in doing it if I was going to have nothing done by the end.
I thought of what I wanted exactly. I initially thought of starting to write a long poem, since most of mine were pretty short, but the need to have finished work in little time was snapping fingers at me. A Haiku. It could easily be done in forty minutes or so. While I looked at her mouth, I thought of the other words I could put in there. I disregarded my initial sentence to use it for another time.
«Dolls — like A, turn B into C»
She drank more coffee and licked her pink lips.
No. The structure wasn't very traditional.
«Dolls turn A into B, like C»
But what could those ABC's be filled with? 'Snow', 'blood', I couldn't get to think of a way in which it would sound like I hadn't completely pulled it out of my ass for an excuse to use the first word. I thought of a way to change it to something better, something that made more sense as I kept looking at this girl. Her delicate-looking hand was holding the book firmly.
«Turning A into B, dolls (do C)»
Did I even want to use 'turning' and 'into'? Poems are meant to be personal. This poem had to be about her. What was this doll turning something of mine into? And what was that other thing she did simultaneously?
She smiled. For a moment I feared she had seen me or being conscious of my staring all this time, but she looked only at the book, meaning (Or maybe it was just like I wanted to interpret it) she was reacting to something written on the book. She turned to the next page.
«Turning A into B, dolls keep silent.»
That's what dolls really do, actually. I can't just keep it as a metaphor that only I can relate to what really happens. Generally dolls are silent, and this one is no exception. But what's something they turn into something else?
If I were to use 'turn blood into sugar' or something like that, it would figure that there is no depth to my haiku, and I'm only lusting after a woman I interpret as a doll. I thought of new words that made it sound less cheesy, but they were so long that it made the phrase lose rhythm.
I stared again at her. I didn't know the first thing about this girl, but I guessed she didn't particularly like romantic media. The book she read was Fahrenheit 451. I was mindlessly looking at her mostly uncovered legs, and then looked at her skirt, her chest, her neck until I realized she was lowering her book and I was sure she directly looked at me at that moment. My gaze met her brown eyes. I was unsure of what to do, but decided to make eye contact for some seconds, and then she broke it.
«Turning rooms into sanctuaries, dolls keep silent.»