Dreams run through my mind like two children on a Friday afternoon.
Running like the prospect of a full weekend through the minds of those
children. Running like the wind through their hair, full, clean,
shimmering. The last bell of the last period of what seemed like a little
eternity rang in their ears as they sprinting towards freedom, towards the
unknown. Running free into the falling sun that sat solemn on its throne
of choking smog. The air was clean to them, though, the tingle of freedom
made everything taste better. Even the sweat that made their bodies
shimmer as though for that moment, they were made of something greater than
flesh. That, too, tasted of victory.
They ran through the halls, and out into the street. Other kids, struggling against the weight of their bookbags on their spirits leapt out of the way or were knocked aside. The runners' bookbags bobbed uselessly, clinging desperately to their backs, unable to weigh them down, unable to stop them. They smiled against the yells, against the pains and against the world. The city parted like an ocean before them. They dodged in and out of the crowd, slipping like ghosts through the melancholy mind and body and soul of it.
And the river drew ever closer, the edge of the world. The children ran towards it, as if pulled by those murky, unclear depths, as if each wave beckoned towards them, each tortured finger of unclean water urged them onward. The sweat trailed like diamonds behind them and the steady drum of their feet on the sidewalk echoed through their minds. Until at last they met with the edge, cold and unyielding. And only then did they stop, laughing between heavy breaths, smiling into the sparkle of a hundred sunken jewels in the river.
Dark-haired, panting, sweating, content. The children gazed out into the water. Then gazed into each other's eyes, still smiling, still free.
"I won." The girl would say, smirking.
"Did not." The boy would protest, scowling.
The girl would scowl back. "Liar! You were WAY slow!"
"Was not!"
"Were too!"
"Was not. Was not!"
"Were too times infinity!"
"Was not times infinity plus one!"
"Were too times infinity plus whatever you can say." She would put her hands on her hips and strike a proud pose, gleaming there like some goddess statue. "Ha!"
"Zero." The boy would smirk.
The girl would sigh and turn back towards the river, letting the sky paint the pale canvas of her face the colors of the sunset. "Fine. It's a tie."
The boy would nod in satisfaction and turn to face the water, leaning forward on folded arms. They would stay like that for a while, motionless, as the twin tides of humanity and water passed them by without notice. Then the boy would turn to look at the girl. He would watch her for a while, looking as though he was about to speak before turning back to the water. Then he would speak, "So what are we going to do tonight?"
And the girl would be ready. "The same thing we always do." And with that, she would leap over the wall, disappearing suddenly as though she had just been a figment of the world's imagination. And at that time, there wasn't anything the boy wanted to do more than follow.
I awoke with start. My throat was so dry I worried that if I moved my mouth, it would crumble. Still, I was drowning in my own sweat. I found that kind of ironic. Either my body was trying to drown itself or simply dry itself out. Until it was like a mummy. Hollow, dry, brittle. Except I wasn't an ancient king. I was one of the poor Egyptian slaves that died unmourned and unburied.
My head still throbbed. I turned to look at the clock across the room, its blazing electric red numbers like some animal's eyes glaring at me out of the pseudo-darkness of my bedroom. Six fifty-five pm. My hand moved on its own to scratch the spot that throbbed behind the flimsy cotton boundary of the bandage. My sweat-slickened hair was plastered down over it, managing to conceal it for the most part. I turned away from the clock for only a second before my head suddenly snapped back so I could gaze, wide-eyed at those red-hot numbers.
"Shit!" My voice was a cross between a hiss and a croak, but I didn't even notice. The words had barely left my mouth before I was up, frantically tearing into my closets and my dresser to find clothes. I had forgotten about my meeting with Aya. When I got home, all I could think of was the woman, Haruko, and the throbbing in my head that felt as though someone were pushing to get out. Aya, for the first time in a long time, had been lost from my thoughts. Seven o'clock. Café Gazo.
Dressed now, I glared in frustration at my reflection. My hair was still wet with sweat, my white t-shirt maintaining the pattern of folds I had put into it, and my pants looking something like a crumpled paper bag. My eyes were reddened and gleamed dully in the rising moonlight, like wet marbles. I wondered whether or not me glaring at the reflection would somehow make it transform into something cleaner, something presentable, something less like a corpse. But the longer a stared, the later I was and the worse I seemed to look. With a final sigh of defeat, I dashed out the door and out into the street.
Café Gazo wasn't far from my apartment. A few blocks, maybe. It was one of those small-time café-on-the-corner sort of places. Constantly filled with college students and young hipsters. Cafés are sort of the malls of the more artistic crowd. Where people can gather and be just as pretentious as the people around them and thus feel they belong through mutual distaste for humanity. The watering hole of the human world. It was equipped with very modern design, the dark greens and the earth tones that one would expect to be served coffee in. Mass-produced furniture made to look hand-made, and a sort of mellow, soft lighting. It was a café like any other café. Full of people that looked at you over their books of poetry and art with a practiced subtly. This is why I preferred my little diner.
When I entered, my eyes instantly found Aya. Aya wasn't one to blend in, even in this environment. Aya with hair like spun onyx, with eyes like the dark waters of our river, with skin smooth and clear as milk and a body curved, not like a blade, because her curves had no edges to them. Her hair was shoulder-length again, and her nails were painted bright red. She wore a knee-length black skirt with frilled ends and a long sleeved white shirt with a row of buttons down the middle. One white hand clutched the bottom of the book she read, the other was wrapped gently around the handle of her cup. Gentle waves of faint steam wafted calmly from it, as if her hand warmed it on its own.
As soon as the door closed behind me, her eyes snapped up and locked with mine. I felt my head spasm and prattle violently, as if she had just stabbed me with her look. Her eyes were as tight as the rose-red of her lips. I swallowed and approached her. She made no movement, her eyes never leaving mine. I stopped a foot from her black sandal. She glared at me for a few moments before parting the flawless rose-red of her lips.
"You're late."
They ran through the halls, and out into the street. Other kids, struggling against the weight of their bookbags on their spirits leapt out of the way or were knocked aside. The runners' bookbags bobbed uselessly, clinging desperately to their backs, unable to weigh them down, unable to stop them. They smiled against the yells, against the pains and against the world. The city parted like an ocean before them. They dodged in and out of the crowd, slipping like ghosts through the melancholy mind and body and soul of it.
And the river drew ever closer, the edge of the world. The children ran towards it, as if pulled by those murky, unclear depths, as if each wave beckoned towards them, each tortured finger of unclean water urged them onward. The sweat trailed like diamonds behind them and the steady drum of their feet on the sidewalk echoed through their minds. Until at last they met with the edge, cold and unyielding. And only then did they stop, laughing between heavy breaths, smiling into the sparkle of a hundred sunken jewels in the river.
Dark-haired, panting, sweating, content. The children gazed out into the water. Then gazed into each other's eyes, still smiling, still free.
"I won." The girl would say, smirking.
"Did not." The boy would protest, scowling.
The girl would scowl back. "Liar! You were WAY slow!"
"Was not!"
"Were too!"
"Was not. Was not!"
"Were too times infinity!"
"Was not times infinity plus one!"
"Were too times infinity plus whatever you can say." She would put her hands on her hips and strike a proud pose, gleaming there like some goddess statue. "Ha!"
"Zero." The boy would smirk.
The girl would sigh and turn back towards the river, letting the sky paint the pale canvas of her face the colors of the sunset. "Fine. It's a tie."
The boy would nod in satisfaction and turn to face the water, leaning forward on folded arms. They would stay like that for a while, motionless, as the twin tides of humanity and water passed them by without notice. Then the boy would turn to look at the girl. He would watch her for a while, looking as though he was about to speak before turning back to the water. Then he would speak, "So what are we going to do tonight?"
And the girl would be ready. "The same thing we always do." And with that, she would leap over the wall, disappearing suddenly as though she had just been a figment of the world's imagination. And at that time, there wasn't anything the boy wanted to do more than follow.
I awoke with start. My throat was so dry I worried that if I moved my mouth, it would crumble. Still, I was drowning in my own sweat. I found that kind of ironic. Either my body was trying to drown itself or simply dry itself out. Until it was like a mummy. Hollow, dry, brittle. Except I wasn't an ancient king. I was one of the poor Egyptian slaves that died unmourned and unburied.
My head still throbbed. I turned to look at the clock across the room, its blazing electric red numbers like some animal's eyes glaring at me out of the pseudo-darkness of my bedroom. Six fifty-five pm. My hand moved on its own to scratch the spot that throbbed behind the flimsy cotton boundary of the bandage. My sweat-slickened hair was plastered down over it, managing to conceal it for the most part. I turned away from the clock for only a second before my head suddenly snapped back so I could gaze, wide-eyed at those red-hot numbers.
"Shit!" My voice was a cross between a hiss and a croak, but I didn't even notice. The words had barely left my mouth before I was up, frantically tearing into my closets and my dresser to find clothes. I had forgotten about my meeting with Aya. When I got home, all I could think of was the woman, Haruko, and the throbbing in my head that felt as though someone were pushing to get out. Aya, for the first time in a long time, had been lost from my thoughts. Seven o'clock. Café Gazo.
Dressed now, I glared in frustration at my reflection. My hair was still wet with sweat, my white t-shirt maintaining the pattern of folds I had put into it, and my pants looking something like a crumpled paper bag. My eyes were reddened and gleamed dully in the rising moonlight, like wet marbles. I wondered whether or not me glaring at the reflection would somehow make it transform into something cleaner, something presentable, something less like a corpse. But the longer a stared, the later I was and the worse I seemed to look. With a final sigh of defeat, I dashed out the door and out into the street.
Café Gazo wasn't far from my apartment. A few blocks, maybe. It was one of those small-time café-on-the-corner sort of places. Constantly filled with college students and young hipsters. Cafés are sort of the malls of the more artistic crowd. Where people can gather and be just as pretentious as the people around them and thus feel they belong through mutual distaste for humanity. The watering hole of the human world. It was equipped with very modern design, the dark greens and the earth tones that one would expect to be served coffee in. Mass-produced furniture made to look hand-made, and a sort of mellow, soft lighting. It was a café like any other café. Full of people that looked at you over their books of poetry and art with a practiced subtly. This is why I preferred my little diner.
When I entered, my eyes instantly found Aya. Aya wasn't one to blend in, even in this environment. Aya with hair like spun onyx, with eyes like the dark waters of our river, with skin smooth and clear as milk and a body curved, not like a blade, because her curves had no edges to them. Her hair was shoulder-length again, and her nails were painted bright red. She wore a knee-length black skirt with frilled ends and a long sleeved white shirt with a row of buttons down the middle. One white hand clutched the bottom of the book she read, the other was wrapped gently around the handle of her cup. Gentle waves of faint steam wafted calmly from it, as if her hand warmed it on its own.
As soon as the door closed behind me, her eyes snapped up and locked with mine. I felt my head spasm and prattle violently, as if she had just stabbed me with her look. Her eyes were as tight as the rose-red of her lips. I swallowed and approached her. She made no movement, her eyes never leaving mine. I stopped a foot from her black sandal. She glared at me for a few moments before parting the flawless rose-red of her lips.
"You're late."
