September 3.
In the morning, there is her skin. Only her skin. Her hair smells of peaches (his yet unknown favorite scent) and her lips are chapped. She wakes, and sits up with her back aching and her arms stretch upward. Her drooping eyes stare at the bedroom curtain and at the light that attempts to shine through. She wonders the time, wonders the weather outside. Cold? Warm? Hot? She cares less. It's a hassle. Every morning—wake up, eat, dress, leave; and every evening—come home, eat, shower, sleep. Her day varies, however, some days she spends with friends, or spends with herself.
She finally abandons her bed, leaves her room, and enters her kitchen. It's of a small vicinity, but she minds not an iota: it suits an apartment built for one person. For her. Only her. As she lays oil into her heated pan, she cracks an egg and places it into the oil. She stands there, her bare legs sore, and she stares at them. She realizes she hasn't shaved for a few days, but that's all right. Today might be cold, so she can wear pants and not worry about hair. She continues to… stare. She contemplates things she doesn't share with her friends, things she doesn't dare share with her friends. She knows their reactions, what they would do for her if they found out. She hates it.
And then her eyes go wide with pain, the hot oil pops onto her hand. She hasn't been paying attention she quickly notices. Her free, not burned, hand clutches the other, definitely burned, hand, and she bits her lip hard. She hops in agony to the sink, turns on the faucet, and gushes cool water all over her hand. Her mouth lets out a gasp of relief. With the cold water still running over her hand, her head curves to look at her egg in the pan. Incredibly burnt. She laughs in abhorrence of herself, only she could burn an egg in some stupid stupor. A stupid daze that she somehow seems to be eternally drowning in, after all it's been eight years. If something as ridiculous as this has continued for so long, it must be everlasting.
Everlasting.
Everlasting.
Everlasting.
Now not only does her hand hurt, but her head as well. "I hate that word," she mutters. Then again, she hates a lot of things. Maybe life hasn't been going so well for the past eight years. She understands why, but doesn't want to address it. By now, she's sitting at her kitchen table peering down at a mug of black coffee, and watches it become cold. She glances at the clock, takes a deep breath and exhales, and then rises from her seat to dress herself for the day. She hates changing her clothes too.
Dressing herself means she has to check the weather outside. September is not her favorite month. The weather differs everyday, she doesn't enjoy change. She stands outside her front door in her sweatpants, sticking her arm into the sunlight. The concrete beneath her feet feels cold, but the sun warms her skin. She steps back inside and slugs to her bedroom. There, she undresses. Then, she slips a faint lemon sundress onto her body. She cleans herself in the bathroom, brushing both her hair and afterwards her teeth. She doesn't bother with makeup, there's no point to it.
She slides her purse on her shoulder and leaves. The knob to her apartment clicks as she locks it. Her face gazes at the world in front of her. A few cars drive by. She has lunch soon with a friend. Children are crossing the street—right, she forgot it's Saturday. She dislikes keeping track of days. She finds solace when she can't remember what day it is. "Deep breaths," she tells herself.
Luncheon begins at 12:15. If that is the case, she can take her time walking. It's been a while since she left the apartment. She lies to herself, she doesn't get up every morning and leave home. As much as she would like to, she goes out at least twice a week. There's no need for work since she's well off with all the money she made in the past.
However, she realizes this shouldn't be her excuse. Really, nothing should be her excuse. She believes she must be some kind of world record holder for barely doing anything. She halts abruptly on the sidewalk, noticing she's rubbing the tips of her fingers with her thumb. She's nervous. She starts to breathe heavily, something is not right. She only ever feels like this when something terrible will happen. But what?
But what?
She relaxes her shoulders. Everything around her seems normal. She assumes it to be anxiety since she hasn't been out in a while. She window shops, her eyes rolling over different objects every other minute. "I think that looks cute," she says occasionally. After a while, she starts for the coffee shop to meet her friend. Once her friend comes into sight, she faintly smiles and waves. She doesn't want to be here. She sits down across from her, her friend keeps talking, and talking, and droning. The friend says the usual "I haven't seen you in so long!" and "How are you?"
It passes fast. She actually eats. She says goodbye. She heads home.
She glances at her watch, only 2:30. Only 2:30 and it's sweltering and becoming increasingly humid. Another reason why she hates September. Her legs stop on their own, and she feels herself be pulled into a bookstore. It's cool inside, it's quiet. She loves this. She can smell all the words she could be reading. She walks down a few aisles, touching the spines of books. Her hand twitches.
He adores reading books, or at least she remembers he did. It has been so long for her to know now. It's been too long. Time is supposed to heal all, how come it hasn't yet? Her index finger rubs the spine of one book, and it slowly moves to the tip of it. She pulls the book out by her finger, she opens it. Her heart drops as she glances up. "He still loves books," she breathes quietly.
Her blue eyes stick to a broad back with its head down into a book. Her chest tightens, her body stiffens. She drops the book in the noiseless shop. She runs. His head turns quickly to the sound made behind him, then his body swerves to the door seeing her leave. Saliva catches in his throat. He runs.
"It's him," she says in her mind.
"It's him," she says quietly.
"It's him!" she screeches.
It's humid. It's raining. He calls her name and she has to stop because cars are driving through the street. She's frozen. He says her name again. She turns. Here he is. Eight years. Here she is. She sees his grey eyes.
The beginning of September: she hates it now.
6:00 am. He wakes, the sun hasn't risen. Therefore, there is no reason to look at the curtains. He sets his feet on the carpet floor, sitting on the side of his bed. For some reason, he feels as though something is amiss with his bedding. Sleeping at night becomes such hassle, and always has been for a while. He sleeps and… he feels something is missing. He cannot tell what. He's moves from city to city, different apartments on different floors, changes his bedding regularly. Yet, something leaves his bed empty and unwelcoming.
He enters his bathroom, washes his face, brushes his teeth. Then, he pours coffee grinds into a filter, places it in the machine, and brews. His morning ritual. He yawns, tears form in his eyelids. His fingers wipe them away. In the cabinets, he pulls out the handle of a red mug that now hangs on his finger like a Christmas ornament. He is partial to this cup, even though he knows he shouldn't be. After all this time, he understands it would be better to smash it… He doesn't.
Throughout his traveling, he has seen many different cups, tasted many different teas and coffees, but none can ever live up to the taste of this cheap brand. This cheap brand, he chuckles as he holds the jar of coffee grinds, he thinks it tastes foul. He also realizes he should stop drinking it… but he doesn't. He understands there are quite a number of things he should stop doing.
In this way, if he keeps doing them, then maybe, just maybe...
Even if that maybe will never be answered, these "conventions" calms his mind. If his mind is calmed, then his body will be calmed. His grey eyes stare at the coffee-maker, steam comes from the pot as the hot liquid streams. He grits his teeth, if everything he does supposedly calms his body, how come he really isn't calm? It has been so long already. "Let it go," he tells himself.
The red light on the coffee machine turns green, it's done. He pours the drink into his mug, puts no sugar or cream. He leaves it black. He remembers that was how it used to be. She would make it just like that: black. He thinks he really must be stupid. Maybe if he uses this cup, maybe if he keeps drinking this God-awful excuse for caffeine, then maybe.
Maybe she'll come back to him.
He's searched already. She won't ever pop up again. At the end of his day, it has been so many years, so many months, so many days. Hours, minutes, seconds. She could look so different. She ages, he bears in mind. She must be more beautiful now. She must be a real woman now. He feels nauseous as goosebumps roll across his body. He shouldn't want her anymore, he shouldn't have in the first place… but he does.
He can't stand who he is. He shakes his head, but he can't do anything about it either. He swallows his coffee, because tasting it is out of the question. After placing it in the sink, he walks to his office. In his case, his office is his place of refuge which has the only other things in life he holds dear. He gazes at them in their glass cases, they're all precious and valuable. "I almost had something else that could have been worth more," he breathes.
For some reason, he isn't sure why today he thinks of her more than usual. He sits down at his desk and moves a small brown satchel in front of him. He empties the contents, stones of various colors fall into his hand. The edges and surfaces of the stones have the same sensation as touching rust or a chalkboard. His fingers reach for some brown glass bottle, his finger tips search for the lid and they open the bottle. Carefully, he takes a rough cloth and lets a few drops of the liquid wet the fabric. He holds a stone delicately between his thumb and index finger, then touches it with the cloth. He begins cleaning.
After some time, the stone smoothes out and loses its grime. It starts to shine. He smiles weakly, he did it right. At least he hasn't lost this. He glances at the clock, only 8:00 am. His grey eyes stare at the pile of stones in front of him, he decides to clean them all.
The time doesn't go quickly for him. He cleans stone after stone. He's aware that he is too good at his job. As a result, he slows down.
When he finishes, he also finishes his fourth cup of coffee. By this time, it's the afternoon. His stomach caves in, and he notices he needs to eat. Standing up from his desk, his legs wobble on the account he has been sitting down for hours. He walks straight past his refrigerator, he knows there's nothing in there. There isn't much of a reason to stock up on food, he's only been here for… three weeks. For any regular person they would have stocked on food a while ago, but he isn't quite the average man.
His hand reaches for his keys, but his eyes briefly scan the window. It appears warm and inviting. He opts to walk instead.
Before he leaves, he rolls up the sleeves of his white dress shirt. Opening the obsidian door, his dress shoes touch the ground. After which he locks the door and leaves. The sun shines brightly, and although cars drive by and children are socializing, the world seems quiet. He walks to a dumpling stand he frequents. The man there recognizes him, smiles, hands him the usual, and in return he pays the money owed.
He moves slowly towards the park across the street. He rests on one of the benches, placing one dumpling in his mouth after the other. His eyes examine the world around him. He sees children playing, and enjoying, with their new friends. He then notices he hasn't spent time with his friends in a while, he only releases them when spelunking. He also wonders what she does with her friends nowadays. Is it still the same as then?
Once he finishes the last dumpling, he stands up. "Where to now…" he wonders. A little off in the distance, a bookstore catches his eye. He also is aware that the air begins to become thick with humidity, the skies accumulating grey. He sighs, time to pick up the pace with his footing: he doesn't want to be soaked.
Eventually he enters the bookstore, and his body stiffens immediately. He adores books, but the smell of them makes him ill. Too many memories splash back into his face like cool water. Yet, the air refreshes him, the silence comforts him. His eyes scan the shelves, nothing calling out to him. So he stops near the back of the shop, picking out a random book and opening it. His fingers stroke the pages, the paper has a musty scent. He isn't particularly interested in the book, but the idea of it. The idea of a book, reading with her once more.
His trance breaks. The sound of a book descending to the carpet is made behind him. His head moves swiftly, but the culprit runs.
She runs.
He understands under a second that it's her.
He runs.
His eyes stick to the image of her body fleeing. He yells her name, hoping she might stop. It begins to downpour. He can't stop himself from going after her. She can't cross the street because of the cars. He stops. She stops. He says her name once more and she stares. It is only him, her, and the rain.
He's unsure whether the rest of his day will go well or not.
a/n: tbc I promise! This is an ongoing series with multiple chapters. I hope you will read along with me as I write!