Autumn
All the world's a stage.
Hino Kahoko enters stage left, veiny and thin and red, still newborn despite all her years. The streets are layered and littered with the same delicate beauty, each crumbling into dissonance under the tread of commuters in their plain black loafers. By no divine right was she chosen and elevated by powers of the wind. It simply came, and her privilege were few matched by the numerous hopefuls who harvested hopes more significant than their crumbled ends.
The playwright always plays favourites.
ii.
Relief accompanies one certain of their own maturity. It's such an acute awareness of past failings that soothe the existing.
- Or, at least, this theory was being argued (albeit one-sidedly) as she drew her bow over the violin. Hino knew few had the dexterity to maneuver criticisms and sharp exchanges on the human psyche, but the old man did so with ease. He bounded over the length of darkened living room, adorned with luxuriously deep colours. He expostulated with ardor.
"It's easy to overestimate," the man leaned over, frowning. "You clench your fists and insist on your ability to achieve it, to stick through, to honor your promise. But these petty acts commit themselves to being destroyed by circumstance. Pretty soon, you've met someone else. You've a new job offer."
"None of such nonsense I've actually experienced before, though," the man admitted after a beat.
Hino stopped. "Many theories call into question the need for exceptions,"
It was true; she had believed she could win out the irksome notes of the piece. There was nothing wrong with dynamic or technique, but they snagged plainly. Promising an outcome seemed only the guarantees of the foolishly confident.
"Your technique seems fine," the man said as she went through the piece again, then snapped back into combat-ready argumentative form. "I suppose you feel that you are entirely warranted to argue your case in promises?"
She was all too aware of her puerility as she smiled. In some ways a response came easy. A worthy one entirely eluded her.
By contrast, the man determinedly channeled disagreement and sarcasm. He was barely visible against the grey of the sky, having a figure so imposing the shadows never quite cleared of his face – which was, on closer inspection, rather handsomely adorned with deep-set grey eyes. Hino never understood the flickering of emotions in eyes that the literary world so often psychoanalyzed, but his were like the rest of his body, and that was easier to read – full of restless energy and ardor against wrinkles. His hands twirled and tapped walking sticks with intense dexterity.
"Well?" he demanded.
"You know, I don't think you're quite cranky enough." This utterance came from the third companion, entering the room, smoothing a hand through fluffy white hair.
"I need foolish philosophies," he insisted, authoritative. And then looked sheepish.
Hino paused, checked her heavy scoresheets. Eight hours of practice, lessons at the conservatory, and now this. It was a curious arrangement—the instructors probably had much to say on the use of her time ("enough has been wasted")—but curious enough in its refusal to subsist.
"I'm not sure I agree," she murmured as she drew the violin once more. She'd forgotten the feeling of an unmarked chin. "At least I would like to believe that some promises are kept."
"People are entirely deluded of their own strength," her companion retorted. "They are either soaring with raw psyche or obsessive over failings."
Numerous failings, Hino thought. It remained unvoiced – such a de facto statement went better unsaid.
"Is it always a case of extremities, though?" she asked lightly.
"Preference," the man responded. He paused for a moment in seeming consideration. When his head popped upwards again it was filled with a different manic light.
"Horrid," the man said now, his attention having shifted. He had in the space of a few notes sunken down onto a couch and was now peering up at Hino's violin with great intensity. "You're all muddled with thought. It shows."
"I thought the point was to experience and feel. You channel what is genuine." Hino said. She had parroted his words from less than three days ago. It was evidently flawed, because the man was shaking his head with alarming dissent.
"But not from the petty confines of your pathetic life!" he snapped, rolling his eyes. This prompted his female counterpart to cluck comfortingly in the general direction of Hino.
"Don't worry, dear. He's fond of his soliloquys," the lady grinned.
"Trying to make yourself think of something rarely bring any good. You can't present your own shallow emotions to the audience. Especially with that suspiciously quixotic story."
He met her eyes. "Yes," he conceded with an eye-roll. "The culmination of experience and your personal emotions that brings forth interpretation. But that's a terribly narrow way to limit your experience."
"That's right, dear, Fred is such a fixated bore. It'd be terrible if all we heard in music was such balderdash."
"Astrid said it," he agreed, alarmingly triumphant. "You respect your music and its composer, and the intelligent of the audience. It's not your job to impose them with delirious recounts of personal joy and whirlwind romances. Which means," he paused. "Just play the music. For now."
She sighed and played another couple of bars, by which time the dual battling areas of concentration had entirely crumbled and drew a blank. There was simply everything else, and moving hands.
"You've got it, dear." The lady said.
Hino sighed. "I'd hope so."
"Playing takes more than your petty love for it," the man snarled. "Now get out."
The man was whimsical; his commands demanded for obedience. In another descriptor it may have been subservience. So like a doormat Hino packed her things and prepared to leave. She thanked her companions.
"The same story," again he rolled his eyes. With a leap he bounded up and swung the unlocked door open.
"Goodbye, darling," the lady whispered in undertone. "And ignore Fred, he's always been crazy."
"Astrid's always been right," he agreed, reaching out to briefly hug Hino. "Goodbye, child."
Despite the blast of chilling air she smiled. The strange couple radiated endearment, and as brusque as the man behaved Hino was rather accustomed to the queer occupants of London. The brevity of her stay hadn't cut out the array of these characters. She gathered the swaths of her trench coat about her waist and let out a puff in the cool air. The streets were lined with a strange sort of coolness, in the prime of a season she didn't entirely recognize.
Such cognitive abilities were fixated upon the lone, familiar figure by the streetlamp.
x
Falling into Tsukimori's arms came easily. The passage of time allowed clumsy elbows to work into familiarity. There used to be prolonged distance – time had taken care of that too.
He wasn't one for superfluous pleasantries – but she didn't quip in cheerfully as per job description. Then again their polarities have melded closer together.
Briefly, she recounted Fred's latest monologues. Fred had turned a subject of both interest and caution in their conversations. They had conceded that he'd pick her up after her visits to Fred's apartment. Somewhere the objective of her safety had evolved, but they hadn't argued about the reason yet – and hence it, being existent, loomed unconsciously over the walk home.
"He agrees with Astrid all the time. They met on opposing ends of a hullabaloo of sorts and he ended up in full consensus with her," Hino told Tsukimori. "I don't think much has changed. It's quite sweet, really."
"And I suppose I'll have to tell my grandchildren that I first fell asleep on the shoulder of their grandmother."
He sighed.
Hino looked at him. "That's a bit presumptuous."
"And you're assuming I'm talking about you," Tsukimori responded, a rare hint of teasing creeping into his tone.
"Fred says that my life is only petty and pathetic." She replied.
"I think lives are shallow and people do a great job of complicating things for themselves," he said. "There simply is."
"I don't think it discounts the value of experience."
"Yeah."
x
Her apartment was a long walk away from Fred's labyrinth of identical, narrow alleys. Navigation required saintly patience.
They stumbled into her apartment late. This apartment was often darkened and dank, but she probably enjoyed its residence because of the little time she spent in it, because she didn't feel unassuaged anxiety when she played violin. And she had traveled many leagues to close in upon their distance. Strange that he too had decided for some semblance of permanency in an orchestra. His career would continue, but for now, they were both staying.
They unwrapped themselves of the layers imposed by the weather. This was not yet so familiar that they had a comfortable routine, but tea was brewed and Hino brought the violin to her chin again. The apartment was colder than Fred's, which was all decked in furs and velvets.
While Hino practiced (trying to employ Fred's confusingly detailed specifics), Tsukimori plainly disappeared into the kitchen. By the time her back muscles were knotted and roiling with numbness, there was soba noodles on plates.
"Huh." Hino surveyed the layout. "I guess the inability to cook is not meant to be a personality trait, after all."
He shrugged. "You haven't tasted it yet."
Hino swooped down to twirl a forkful of noodles into her mouth. She smiled.
"I should probably stick to violin?" Tsukimori offered dryly.
"So self-deprecating," Hino grinned.
"Just well-adjusted," he retorted.
"I think it tastes," she paused. "It tastes fine."
"Fine, like yourself."
"No, fine, like mediocre," Hino laughed.
§ They didn't always talk. Mio and Nao were not interested in their silent exchanges, just in the fact of their unlikely proximity. Perhaps such conversations were hard to imagine. They were hard to remember, because – You scarcely speak, Hihara remarked when he walked into their practice room. Are you two okay? The pair had been sitting in silence too stale for his returning welcome. So Hino was surprised when he responded for the both of them. Good, Tsukimori said.
Later, when Hihara left, he sank back onto the piano bench where they had been interchangeably playing violin, talking, and then (truthfully, mostly) doing nothing. It was not unpleasant. Very little expectation was to be demanded of an acclaimed violinist and his former competitor. He was discomfited, and spoke forcefully. I don't know what I'm doing here.
Truthfully, neither did she. So she was careful. I don't think you have to know.
I don't agree, he snapped.
Tsukimori-kun, Hino had been quizzical, lowering her violin from her chin. What is it?
Talk to me, she said when he didn't respond. He directed his eyes towards the window. Anything is fine.
Hey – she pressed – all these thoughts need to go somewhere.
Besides. You could talk to me before. Nothing has changed.
That was contestable. Perhaps a wheedling high school student was not the brightest or most persuasive of speakers. And perhaps she wasn't entirely convinced.
He gave no indication he had heard, immobile. And then: Chocolate.
On Valentine's, everyone gives chocolate. The nature of relationship hardly matters.
That sounds nice. Caution.
It is usually competitive. Everyone is perfectly settled into his or her instrument and there is no reason why they do not deserve an opportunity. They dredge up hours for more merit. Even there musicians are being stifled. There are not enough places at the top. It's a way of peacekeeping, I think. One day of apologies.
It was true. Even the talented owes some to those less so. They both knew that it was not his case. In the most competitive and competent of players he simply made little mistakes. He rarely lost out – this was established. But somewhere there were more, perhaps souls just like his. And by curious misfortune they had enough virtue to amongst the best, but not enough.
It hardly matters to me. I…don't often speak with them. One rarely has time. You realize that the errors in playing from those at the bottom are almost negligible, and rarely fundamental – they are good musicians. They are talented. And they are dedicated. But they don't fly close enough to perfection.
Kahoko-chan. Your errors. They're – almost – negligible.
It is autumn; the open window ushers in leaves dramatically. To cushion a fall, or to set up the setting as fall. The gold were contenders, and she imagined evaluators of beauty, photographing Albania. This beauty was never quite existent outside of the melancholy. She couldn't detach emotion.
Was she angry? No; he was being heartwarmingly candid. Was she sad? She had already been to begin with. Was she happy? No; and she was glad. It was not meant to be easy.
Thank you, she said.
§ How it happened, and what came of it – they debated this, they with their theories, curious music students. Perhaps the two had walked so dangerously close, they couldn't emerge without the other. Or perhaps, they were one of the rarities, one intended only for the other.
§ Tsukimori does not support the theory. With due respect he said. Affections can come easily, and from the strangest of people. It is a choice.
They walk the way all through his vacation as per unspoken arrangement. (They don't understand each other, but they are building their instincts so they one day might) The sun has never shone brighter. And the ground has never been colder.
§ Something had happened; and no one had gained a foothold on it.
Tsukimori was convinced to stay the night.
She had always made accommodations of propriety. At the moment it was the futon that sat in the middle of living room. The apartment boasted a drawer of his things, traces of his neat stacking (most prominently in untouched newspaper stacks), photographs hurriedly traced as Hino rose to her 4 AM routine.
He frowned. "This is risky."
"Not as risky as walking home at one a.m. Your concert is in the evening," she argued. "It's not ideal, but still time to practice."
He nodded, running a towel through his damp hair. The sight of him in T-shirt and trousers were getting increasingly familiar, she mused to herself. They were so determinedly working themselves into a routine, that she yearned to preserve its simplicity. Instead she stood dumb against the hardwood floor, willing her arms not to reach forward. The allure of the night was soon dissipating to day. Romanticisation could not continue.
"I think we should reconsider Friday nights like these," she told him finally, settling next to him as he stared at the blank TV screen. "I appreciate your company, but it's hardly beneficial for your career. You need rest and practice too."
"It makes sense. Though that would leave communication by... phone calls," he said. "Hey. I don't mind coming, honestly."
She had teased him with the notion that he was - finally - cultivating a sense of fun. Now Hino felt a strange twist at her heart. It was not unfamiliar. Often, even, in moments where she tapped unsent texts before heading towards practice. When she heard of hip independent cafés and instead hurried home, swinging mittened hands. Already she was eating dinner alone on the weekends - en route to the apartment, a trail of fairytale breadcrumbs dotting an escape route to trace.
"About that," Hino said. "I really am grateful. But I've been thinking," she trailed off, averting her eyes. On retrospect, it was rather telling a giveaway, but all foolish propositions are one and the same.
"Would you like to discontinue periodic dates and obligations," he asked flatly.
"Just for a bit. I'd hate to impede on your career—"
"—I told you, I don't mind—"
"—and I, too, need to redouble my efforts. I know that you've made a lot of time from your schedule, but I hope you'll understand."
"That you still have a long way ahead comparatively and you need to accelerate to get ahead?" he asked, not unkindly.
"Music is a gift, and this career is to be chased rather than built. It will still be a relationship, I promise, not a – I couldn't do that."
"You know, I like the way things are now. It's good."
"Not to me." Hino responded quietly.
Tsukimori was silent.
"Are you angry?"
He shook his head. "I respect that."
Hino looked down. It was a mistake – she would miss him, but they were close enough from being distanced. Music was not less important than their relationship.
"I'm sorry."
"No," Tsukimori responded. Hino felt his arm threading around her shoulders. She leaned into him reflexively, and wondered how she was going to redirect these instincts. For that moment she caved, tucking her head under his chin. His warmth was surprising. They had changed, after all. "Don't be."
"…I love you." – was it a declaration or was it compensation? She couldn't tell.
"Better not, or you won't be able to disentangle yourself," he teased, and then sighed at Hino's expression. He pressed a hand against the side of her face. "Oh. Me too."
iii.
"I love you," she had told him, again, over the phone. He had murmured it back to her, all the while lengthening the distance between them. Still they had both meant the utterance, because they rarely spoke it. They hadn't said it this time – the difference it made, even if they hadn't changed.
So why was she here? Why was she alone? – Alone, combating the smell of disinfectant, drab whitewashed walls and long winding corridors, struggling to move with a sluggish pace, IV hooks and emergency rooms. She couldn't see the beauty in the single potted plant. And when she reached out the leaves were limp and plastic. She was alone. The floor was empty, the morning outside too lovely for illness.
The corridors were cold. She was cold too. And tired, and having a raging headache.
And above all, she wasn't the one. She wasn't the one flung from the passenger's seat, the one injured. She was alone because Tsukimori was, too. She was alone because she had not been driving. She had not swerved to avoid pedestrians. And he was in the other side of the door, the operation lights devilishly neon. It did not flicker, not in the way her hope was. Because she was still thinking about herself, loathing the fact at the same time, painfully aware of the next appointments that waited as the time wore on, while in her mind's eye the car skidded and rolled down the treacherous slopes, falling falling falling. It had been ten at night – now three, the morning too lovely for accidents – and still. In a concert gown too rich and long, hair falling apart, makeup intact but old – she still had not cried, and wondered why.
They hadn't been arguing. They had not argued for two years, running out of time for trivial misunderstandings as careers accelerated. They were fine – fine like herself and not fine like mediocre. It still felt like a lie, because he had not held up his end of pretense, and now slews of uniformed men interrogated her.
Parents? They were in Japan. She was to blame.
Siblings? Nonexistent. She was to blame.
Friends? He did have friends. They were in Japan. They were on world tours. They were in Vienna. She was to blame.
Others? She was the other one. She was to blame, it was her.
And they were both alone.
The emergency light flickered off. The edifice seemed to shudder.
x
"You know," Freddy had said, laughing from his armchair as Astrid and Hino stared. "I don't agree with the bollocks about hearing emotion in a piece. There is no emotion!"
"It is conveyed?" Astrid asked.
"No! Practiced! You can hear mechanisms ticking into the calculation of a sonata, rehearsed grace. By the end they are so rehearsed that there is no more emotion to be added."
"Have you performed before?" Astrid questioned him, rolling his eyes.
"It's a performance, and not a tell-all. There is a composer, and an interpreter that cannot stray ludicrously from his emotions. In the end emotions are only what they are, felt, and used."
"So is there emotion at all?"
Fred softened. "Put it this way. To feel an emotion you have to already possess it, no? Music is wonderful, but it is not your emotion, and your life. How could it be, when it is the very beauty milked from the essence of the former?"
x
She had been lucky many times.
She had made it to Europe. She had grown through her years without dying, blessed life and experience.
And now she was lucky again.
Only a bruised lung, two broken ribs, torn finger ligaments, varying glass scratches, bruising, etc. (etc.) Luck is rather gracious about her generosity. They were not permanent, as temporary as babies and fading promises and the illusion of love.
She stared down at a scarred face – she'd been told they would fade, another lucky auspice – thinner and gaunter than she'd known. And she realized that it was easier when he did the talking – the machinery replaced it, skirring and humming mechanical tunes of accusation in between, a conversation entirely in undertone.
x
When he could speak again she had forgotten how a normal exchange carried itself, or how they used to speak. His eyes flickered open, the anesthesia wearing off.
"Len-kun," she said, voice hanging sad and soft against the clicks of the room. There's no space to smile, and she draws the curtains about the bed. There is a single window the filters through limpid sunlight in the morning, feeble as her greeting.
His eyes darted around the ceiling, stopped and feasted on her. "You," he said.
She could not read emotions. The residents had come in to brief him, and there was nothing left to say that he didn't already know.
"I'm sorry." – the fluorescent lights caught her eyes. He saw, again, that they were glistening. It was a strange sense of desperation, the slow plunger pushing down a lethal injection, slowly shattering her senses.
The little words they exchanged shuttered down. His eyes closed slowly. "Okay."
She had read of people broken beyond belief, of children hanging on to incubators and dredging up oxygen saturation. And before, she had fallen out of sync with its pedestrian rhythm, the tales of shattering hearts and minds following breakups. But still she had not been broken, and she wanted to be, because otherwise she was a crusading star, and it would all implode in ash.
And still, she wanted to be close by him.
"Shall I call your parents?"
"The news will likely break soon, and your fans will be heading along. Release a statement about the nature of the accident. Isn't it better if they heard it from you first?"
"I could call your manager too. Adri?"
"Kahoko-chan, could we go for a walk?" he asked, louder and more forcibly than any of his previous utterances.
"I'd feel more assured if we called your parents," she said. "And I don't think that it's a good ide—"
She caught his eye and relented.
x
It's a corporate slab of ground, lined with unhealthily bright grass and potted plants, decked around industrial fountains, and smatterings of those in wheelchairs. There wasn't much, but the shades of autumn remained. A subtle fringe, oddly comforting.
They walked alone, apart. There was nothing to say, so noncommittally she asked whether he was all right. He ignored that, letting the statement hang with head down, abashed at its own tactlessness. She asked about his schedule – that, too, paused awkwardly, terminated.
"I'm sorry," she settled, softly. "I don't know what else to say. I'm sorry this happened to you."
It strikes her that a movie had discontinued the usage of "sorry" in the romance. So perhaps they never had much to begin with.
"It wasn't a serious crash."
She glared. "It's like telling me about an affair that lasted six months instead of a year."
He chuckled dryly. "Now just how did you find that out?"
"It was all over the tabloids." She deadpanned.
"I promise there's just Adri." He returned the banter reluctantly.
And Adri was heavily pregnant with her fourth child. The joke was not remotely amusing to either, and the atmosphere stayed sombre. It had been two years, and rare was it that they had stayed somewhere long enough to meet the eye of an acquaintance, much less -
"You do need to contact Adri, you know. Tell her about recovery and surgery, minimalize the collateral damage and all – Len-kun, you already know this."
"I do."
"Then maintaining credibility is a matter of responding quickly."
The air was chilly, a veil of fog and mist blown across, smearing away the sharper veneers, dotted with the blur of numerous penumbras. She stared back into his eyes, uncharacteristically widened.
"I know," he said.
"What are you trying to prove? It's your career. It's the violin."
"It's the violin," he repeated. "It's just the violin, Kahoko."
"What do you mean, it's just the violin? Are you all right?"
"Have you watched any of my recent concerts?"
"I have," she responded, nonplussed. They rarely discussed concerts now, but she still watched from her phone, backstage before performances, en route to practices. Newspapers in their storefront positions fluttered, flustered and boasting their news of an enfant terrible haunting the concert halls. The reviews littered the mind, far too many aficionados and critics lining their entitled opinions (as often ejaculated during bitter feuding), far too diversified for frequent monitoring.
"What did you think?"
"Your reviews were good."
"Is that what you thought too?"
The leaf had blown away, and in its wake there was mourning. There were places that not everything visits, there were lands that migrating swans did not stop by.
Staring into his eyes from her vantage point, she struggled to remember the last time he was close enough to be touched, and the soundless, keening guilt struck.
She faltered.
"Len-kun."
Folk tales – they loved the winds, they loved the many directions it blew the little pliable leaf. Now one fluttered off in departure of a distant land.
"There is nothing more than playing two hundred shows in staunch repetition. The broad repertoire can only do so much for you."
She heard the ghost of her own helpless voice so many years ago, hanging a thin wisp, backed into a corner - "What do you mean?"
"Do you think we invest too much emotion into performances? It's about the technicality. You could convince yourself of playing with emotion," he said. "But it's about the nuance, amidst conceived notions of emotional fiestas. It's much less the expression of self than mechanical emptiness, a machine programmed to impress, a tune designated to entertain."
In movement there is only abiding, and in the propagation of wind there is only following.
"It's music. Your whole life is centered around it." She said, at once acutely aware of the sheer ludicrousness of the gown, impractical against the morning fog. It is awfully cold.
"It is a lie." He said. "It is a performance."
"It brings hearts together," she implored. "You, of all people—"
"—It also rips them apart!" he snapped abruptly, more livid than she had ever remembered. "When was the last time that you have even spoken about something more than your career? And your parents?"
"We're just busy," she said, quavering. "They understand. It's temporary."
"Why not?"
This is how they argue: they argue only when alone and apart.
"Come on," he was exasperated now. "When was the last time you have called your parents? If you call them, do you converse with them? Is it ever free of excuses of concerts, of how busy you are? When was the last time you belonged to the rest of the public were part of you?"
"I don't need to be. Music is different."
"So is a plumber. So is a writer. So is the president. Elevating music into the higher order is foolish and presumptuous."
"Are you calling me presumptuous?"
It was frightening. They had barely argued before, never heated and she had never felt the cold fury rise against her, and nor the resounding force that rose against.
"No. In the end we are all existent. As if music is reason enough to stop living."
"That's disrespectful to your own profession. Music breathes life. Sacrifices are necessary. It's not superiority."
"You are not the instrument. Music doesn't take precedence over everything."
"There are priorities." She retorted. "I don't understand how you could be so irresponsible over something this important."
"This is as much about a balance as it is about metaphysics. Why are you so angry?"
"I care about you!"
At some point they had reached a clearing where the gardens had tapered off. Instead the garden had tapered off, and a patch of grass underlined hard grey masonry. He stared back, his expression cold, again, the way it hadn't looked upon her for years – and it radiated dully through her.
"Do you?"
Swift incisions were always cuttingly precise.
"Yes," she whispered.
The leaves were making a move – perhaps they wanted to stay on the untouched grounds, perhaps to invade its greenery with an army of fallen friends, but the wind was clearing it. A roar in any direction and towards that they fluttered, defenseless even in their masses.
iv.
After all this time, all it comes to is this.
It has grown, and ballooned since we had last spoken. Now we speak in parallel languages.
"I hate that you're even considering throwing violin away. You, with so much prepossessed talent and ability. To stop is an insult and embarrassment for the industry."
"Don't kid yourself. Even you are dispensable."
I have not seen his face for years; have not seen the contours and exhaustion, his confusing and fear in the sharp focus that I do now, that it's no longer open and receiving.
"The musician by which music pours through hardly matters. The difference to me is that I want my life back."
And I think—days playing in the cathedral, and his Grammys and awards. The segues and compositions he would hum when he was the one to lean in to me, the music of the night's crickets, summer's wind wiping apart our distance.
"I don't know what you mean," I say shakily. "Music is your life. It is all there is."
There is music everywhere. The sound of sunshine against ice cream. Protesting flowers yanked up by the ear. Perhaps one day I would have a daughter beautiful enough to forgo this offense. The sound of grim and innocent joy – the sound of childhood summers. Earning an elusive laugh, unrefined in its rarity. Concertos. Traffic. Two times, three times, common time. All this while, I have walked with one other.
"That's all there is about you."
Is this still an argument? The momentum halts, a rising revolt without bellicosity. Len's face changes, shatters and remolds into a mask of anger and sadness.
"All there is," he repeats, dull.
Everything trembling seems placated at a lower decibel. But that's only because I can't hear it.
And when the sound breaks through the eardrums, is there anyone to blame but yourself? When the fissures and fault lines converge, and painfully human insecurities burst screaming to the surface, finally heard. Singleminded and heavyhanded with destruction. Realisations come too late. It is you. It has always been you.
"Len!"
He lungs towards the wall with hands thrown – humans destroy – and then it is all reaction – the adrenaline preceded only by a catalyst – and it is only lunging after, a leaf only follows the course of the wind – but one step slower – the grey sky and the walls tilt into shades of a shade between black and white – in itself a spectrum, in itself holding a porn title – only when somebody is running, and noticing – watching needs to be observed – and Len – syllabic, poetic, utterly unpretentious – hands smashed against the wall – more than the violin he plays – once more, once more - and if it doesn't hurt - the motion of his entire existence plunged against the wall – sacrilege, there are other ways the heart rules the mind, broken bones – he is crazy, he who each fiber of being is a miracle, the same hands that enveloped mine - It is not about him - the body is never a vessel – to hurt is a crime – forgivably the wall is only its concrete, emotionless – he is full of emotion, he sinks – don't do this – I love you– don't, please – I love you — and once again – the arms are strange things, hormone-releasing contraptions the enamored cannot run free of – both surrounded surrendered – the ground is cold and the wall is cold and the air is cold and the leaves have left.
One last dance: A whirl, the air roiling with agitation, and the ground is cold and the wall is cold and the air is cold and the leaves have left. There is nothing left, an alleyway of looming walls and dying embers from an unknown flame, doused with unknown spurts of water. The dying embers smoke, already paying heed to the cool bleakness of the weather. The gold all fades.
We sit this way, him angled against the wall away from harm, hands limp, restrained. It is my own hands around them, perhaps a redeemer or perhaps a comrade confused, in need of warmth and compass – there is a hierarchy of needs – and how inexplicable it is that my mind is blank enough to forget the argument. I have not sat so achingly close before. Despite everything, my heart aches. I close the distance, leaning in and feeling the rise and fall of his chest, defunct but still operational. When I pull him closer we both wince.
"No, stay here."
"You have three broken ribs and a bruised lung. It's got to hurt."
There is no argument in plain fact.
"Stay here." The crook of his neck is unharmed, still a forehead rest, fitted and measured. Years of searching, eight years, and
Exhaustion hangs, nonexclusive free commodity abundant in the seams of pockets. In the end, it doesn't matter. We are musician and violinist, human and animal, mankind and soul, microorganisms in the galaxy. And still, we are bigger and stronger than other microorganisms. We are in-betweens, caught in the unsung range of the extremities of the most minuscule of creatures and the vastest of galaxies. We do not in our being matter; we matter because we choose to be.
"I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry, too."
The galaxy is silent. Even with the slivers and rips of galaxies, the cosmic entities numerous and massive, they are close enough only to see the light and never to converse. It is so quiet. It has always been this quiet. It will always go so undisturbed.
"Kahoko?"
"Yes?"
"Marry me."
"Yes."
There's nothing more to say.
