The Sea as an Artist

A friend said that holidays could soften people's stubborn stance, but it could also harden it more.

I am sitting in front of the open sea. Periodically, the waves would swell up and, as if patiently, holds for a moment to display its awesome wall of water with all the dredge that is collected, and, inevitably, blasts forward against the timeless boulders. The sea and the land, in that constant dance that causes changes too slow for us to see.

Sometimes, we humans, make changes that are too slow too, and sometimes they may not happen beyond our own lifetimes.

The sea is different from the mountains, however majestic the latter can be. The sea connects to all your senses. Its face can be beautiful and romantic, or frightening and angry, or something else. Its scent changes according to the events that shape its hidden abyss. Its salty skin is warm and cold, embracing but also murderous. And the sea tastes like our blood and like the lives that dwell in it. The metaphor of the sea cannot be exhausted. But here, I sit before the sea, and I wonder at its carelessness, its stubbornness. Adamantly pounding the boulders. But I am not as adamant. And I wonder if she is as adamant, but certainly more than me.

The sea can't escape my attention. No matter how much I think about other things, no matter how my mind drifts in thoughts that they themselves are searching for my own heart barricaded by the seawall of my fears, no matter how violent the dynamism of my own abyss is experiencing, the sea is always getting some of my attention, with its ability to tug at my senses. And I would not drift too far before I focus on the sea again. Maybe that's why I come to the sea.

The wind is picking up, blowing golden sand into the turquoise water. It's strange that there's so much sand right next to so much dark, volcanic rock. But that's because this beach is artificial, with sand transported across the strait from the Sahara. And what I did today might feel a little artificial too, transporting my good will squeezed through the cracks of that seawall from my heart. Perhaps it's better to let things go the way they want and not make any effort. The sea doesn't always batter the charcoal-like rocks. It does this periodically, but most of the time it's only caressing it. No one is pushing the water against the rocks.

But I am not the sea and no one is a rock. I mustered the courage to attempt to build a bridge over a two-year old chasm in a friendship that has been left dry. But when she saw my face, for the first time since the schism, her face was passionless like the rocks, not even noticing the battering by time, and all she could tell me was that she didn't want to see me. But there was no violent storm in me, no shattered mountains, no noise of any kind, not even the shrill of a seagull losing its scrap of food. I just smiled and thanked her for her time and let her push me out.

The coast is mostly shaped by the persistent emerald waves that can paint itself in infinite patterns. But I am not shaping anyone's thoughts here, let alone their lives. I am just sitting here on a big boulder atop the ones below being battered. I see that as the sun slowly makes its way down towards the horizon, little black and red crab start to appear on the rocks below, exactly where the periodically violent waves come crashing in. They feel at ease with the tsunami of salt water, much more than if I or any other creature come close. I don't know what they are doing there now. Eating scraps of algae on the rocks? They are just being part of the change, though they are the moving parts, consciously moving parts. And I wonder if I can just be part of this whole system without worrying too much about changes, about chasms to bridge, and just admire the beauty of the sea, its artistic arms that shape the land over time. And I close my eyes and oversea the calming of the shouting and worries in my inner abyss.

Airport Dramas

Being in the airport, an experience often overlooked but full of mini-dramas and worthy of observations. There is the family with loud children hanging on some imaginary center as if it were a school of fish aimlessly rotating about that center but the group is going in a very decided direction. A kid might fall and start screaming for some acknowledgment for his momentary pain. Once he's grown up he will scream quietly also for the public humiliation of being a clumsy idiot. Then there are the many tourists oblivious of their tourist attire that make them stand out, wearing T-shirts over their obese bodies, some tacky hat matched by equally banal shoes and shorts, looking so happy to start their journey that will undoubtedly be tiring because they will want to see everything and deal with the unfriendly locals that are even more tired of tourists.

Then there's the multi-language features of any international airport. You sit there and the couple next to you are having some sort of intensive discussion, and you wonder if they are fighting or if that's how their language sounds normally. Judging by the ups and downs of the tonality and the interplay between that tone, and how they are reinforced by the hand waving and changes in facial expression, you have some idea about what they are up to. Some imagination is helpful.

In the airports outside the US, there is a glaring difference in terms of smoking. As soon as you disembark from the plane, you can smell cigarette smoke. Where are they from when cigarette smoking is supposedly banned? Well, not really. One of the first signs you see when you take your first steps in a Spanish airport is that you are only allowed to smoke in certain designated areas. And where are those areas? They are little rooms, but the rooms' doors aren't ever closed. In fact, there are no doors, but a big opening. I don't quite understand the point of a smoking room that has a big exit for the smoke to permeate through the whole airport. I can imagine that the smoker's lobby says at least you don't have someone puffing right next to you. It's all a joke, really, just like when I was traveling by train in Switzerland and the same car is divided into smoking and non-smoking section separated by an open door. When it comes to cigarette smoking, there can't be a compromise on the degree of smoke.

None of what I said details the high drama you could find at the security check where ridiculous rules are in place to attempt to thwart a catastrophe of low probabilities. Or at the passport control where, especially in arrogant countries like the US and the UK, foreigners are subjected sometimes to dramatic humiliations or worse. And let's not forget about the baggage claim where the tales of a lost luggage brings out the worst of us as well as the worst of the airline industry. But wait, their worst is actually felt on the airplane before take off. More dramas are to be head when you wonder why you can't board, or worst, why you are still sitting in a plane that hasn't moved an inch from the tarmac.

But those are the high dramas that, thankfully, don't happen that often in our experience in the airport. Still, even without those stories, you often just have to sit and watch and see the world flashing in front of you, seeing all these people from all corners of the world, especially if you are in one of the major airports in the world, and you wonder how many people you are missing, how many of their stories you might find interesting. After all, they are all traveling for a reason, and however it might seem ordinary, you can stop and smell the flowers of their ordinariness and see the interesting stories that span from their walk down to or from their gates. Like that old man sitting in a wheel chair being pushed by a weary airport attendant.

Avant-gard Living

There aren't many colors in the room. There's white. There's black. There's silver. And here and there, though intentionally done, there's red to express something or other. Everything is just one of the mentioned colors, and there are no patterns. All solid colors. Even the TV is all black except for the red light that indicates it's sleeping. I wonder what color that light changes when turned on.

And my laptop fits right in, it's silver.

Me, I don't really fit in, which might suggest that the whole point of this is for me to stand out, me, the guest.

On closer inspection, the sitting places, a chair and a cushion on the bench, are the only places red here (aside from the red LED on the TV, as already mentioned). And one of the little sofas is white. The bed is white, to better see any stains you are leaving behind. Or else you can see your lover better lest she drown in the colors of the traditionalists.

Despite the limited number of colors, this place isn't stark. Despite the lack of paintings, not even abstract paintings of an even more limited color set, this place isn't dead. I've been to cheap hotels and motels where the rooms have far more colors but exudes a time that's past and found only in a grave. Here the abstractness, the modernism-ness, suggest youth, daring expressions, all meant to impress, whether it does or not. And it's all very functional. It follows the same formula you probably would learn in hotel management schools about what needs to be in a hotel, waste basket, desk, place for luggage, night stands, phone, switches for the lights on or above the light stands, etc. There are also glasses and the minibar. But they are all made to be part of a pattern.

So I sit in the bed and wonder how I feel. That's the whole point, no? To wonder what to feel, what all this abstraction means for me.

When I saw the bathroom door, I felt I wanted someone here. It's of frosted glass, entirely. (Though it doesn't have any of the colors mentioned, it's considered colorless even though the frostiness gives it a bluish color.) I can imagine seeing the beautiful outline of a lover inside. And inside is even sexier. Simple but long sinktop. There's a squarish toilet, to match all the hard edges in the room. And it's a shower, not a bathtub, which always seems so superfluous to me. How many people would dare to take a bath in a tub whose frequency of cleaning is questionable. The shower is shielded by two huge pieces of glass. I can imagine seeing all of my lover's body in that wet jet of water if I am allowed to be in the bathroom, brushing my teeth.

No doubt, this intentional sexiness is part of the modern approach to hotel management. Traditional hotels, which mean most hotels in the world, don't give out this aura of sexiness. They try to be cute after accomplishing the task of usefulness. They try to have nice pictures inside the bathroom, beautiful colors, even some dry flowers, definitely good soap and scented potpourri, as if the bathroom is for the toilet and showering is a lonesome business like taking a dump. And when they advertise under "romantic getaway" the romance is more about what's available outside the hotel building, like some nice nature for hiking while holding hands, or romantic events outside. But the main theme for romantic atmosphere is usually cheesy, cute, at best. But rarely sexy. If you're in love with your partner, and you come in the bathroom to brush your teeth only to find her beautiful body blurred slightly by the shower droplets, wouldn't you just change your mind and drop your clothes?

This is the first time I am in a modern hotel. It will probably not last too long because, as is with most modernism-related things, people's taste change quickly and they want something different. What's sexy now may change like fashion. Perhaps that's why many hotels opt for the safe decors. Their cheesy, multicolor, shapeless themes have worked for centuries. But for now, I am enjoying this room, and the only complaint I have is that I have no one to enjoy it with.

Speaking the World's Language

A while back, my first time in China, I remember that my Chinese colleague pointed out a grammatical error in this huge billboard greeting visitors leaving the airport. And thereafter I've seen many strange English in that country the two times I've visited afterwards. But then, today as I was entering the Barajas airport in Spain I saw "Chek-in" written on one o the direction signs on a ramp leading to one of the terminals. So it's not just the Chinese who aren't too good with English.

Because English is the lingua franca of the world, it is required in one way or another, on one level or another, you will find an attempt at it everywhere. Not only on public or private signs, but also in the local's communications with you. Many will try to speak the little English they know with you, with a lot of nervousness. Some, like this Eastern European bartender in a cafe inside the Segovia bus station, will not bother and simply say "Spanish, please." And while they attempt to speak, it's often at least a polite and courteous attempt, but the visitor, who speaks English often simply because she doesn't speak the local language, might not realize that or appreciate it, because she needs something that is making her nervous.

At the hotel, for example, the lady tried to speak some English with us. I don't know who's more nervous, me speaking Spanish or her. When I try to speak it, people seem to require that I repeat myself, which makes me even more nervous. Did I say something wrong? Wrong conjugation? Mispronunciation? Simply non-sensicle? When I am not in that situation and reflect back at it, I often understand that perhaps they didn't expect any Spanish from me. They were in the "attempt-to-communicate-in-English" mode so they were understandably caught off-guard. Once I start speaking they could switch back to their native language mode while I would speak more clearly being less nervous. And I wonder if they feel the same way when I try to listen to them in English. But then again, I don't know how much English they really know, and sometimes I feel I know more Spanish then they do.

Language is a funny thing, speaking it, using it to communicate. For me it's interesting because I can dissect it, but it's also difficult because it requires that I relax and not get too uptight about the grammar rules and pronunciation. I forget that I am not in my Spanish or German or Hindi class, that I am not being graded and judged. In fact, regardless of how poorly I speak, people invariably mention at the end that they were impressed by my language, even when I am attempting Hindi and they could barely understand what I am saying. The reality is that I am my own harshest judge. I see my own mistakes and feel worse when the person in front of me catches mistakes I didn't even know I make. This guilt makes it harder for me to speak next time, which could be as soon as the next sentence. It brings up a lot of self-esteem issue, and the whole language speaking thing is a great example of one of my patterns, which is that of an over-achiever who is never satisfied with his own achievements. I understand that my language skills surpass most people I know, and yet instead of giving myself a pad in the back, I am constantly fearing disapproval, often in the form of corrections or worse, a blank and confused stare from the recipient of my linguistic attempts.

But it is changing. I am less bothered by the perceived disapprobation, less upset that I've made a grammatical error. I listen more to my amateur linguist voice, which says that you can't learn to speak fluently unless you simply keep speaking and listening, and corrections can be done on the way but not as a driving force. And the change in attitude does reflect in my graduate change in attitude about life in general. Why be so uptight about everything? Why live my life within the cage of all these rules I make up just because I want to have more control about life?

If one of the European Union's capital airports misspell an English word for the world to see, if the next super power blares out ludicrous and laughable "Chinglish", all as an attempt to respect this lingua franca, why should I be so embarrassed about making mistakes in speaking other people's languages? The fact that a speaker of the dominant language of the world makes an attempt at other languages shows some humility already, and there is no need to apologize, let alone feel guilty, about making mistakes in the language. When I stop being so nervous and uptight about speaking, I will speak more gently, enunciate better, and people's reaction, if they are so important to me, will become even more positive.

Cold Solitude

I had just finished a very long hike up the highest point I had hiked, the highest point I could find in Switzerland that you can hike up to without equipment. I saw great mountains, lots of interesting mountain animals, including the ibex, and breathed the most amazingly fresh air.

But now I was inside an inn. What a difference. There are lots of locals talking and laughing; it's very warm, so warm that the windows have all fogged up. The only similarity to the four hour trip on the tall mountains and ridges was that I was still alone. I was with my journal, writing down the things that have happened. But in my bones, I still remembered the cold, more than the beautiful scenery and the animals and the exhilaration of reaching that highest point. It was cold and even colder as the son started yawning and preparing itself towards the inevitable meeting with the horizon. And the horizon of the mountains is higher than what most people are used to. The chill could be felt in my lungs, and could be seen in the breath that came out. I had to keep walking but then I had to rest, and when I rested, I could feel my sweat collecting and then chilling my body again.

But here I was safe, I wasn't afraid, I was in the company of people, even if they are strangers. Whenever I travel in a cold place I remember that night, how grateful I was to see the road, even from a distance, at least I knew I wouldn't get lost in the field that increasingly looked the same everywhere I turned. At least someone could help me even though this was a very sparsely populated place. There was a sense of gratitude in my mind that stood above all other feelings from that night. I was writing with warm fingers and on a small notebook. I was able to think about the people I cared about with a sense of safety and hope.

I wasn't in danger during that trip. There wasn't a snowstorm brewing. There wasn't vicious animals. I wasn't hiking on dangerous grounds like glaciers. But the sense of loneliness had set in as the sky got darker. I had wanted someone to be with me, as always. I had been hiking for so long alone that I wanted someone to join me sometime. And with that longing came all the longing, the general longing of someone. And the thought that I might get stuck in the mountains and valleys in the darkness deepened the sense of despair over lack of a companion.

And so I was grateful for many things, and among them was that I was sitting among people. Even though they weren't my companions a the time, I was accompanied by the familiar, their voices, their food, their energy. I remember the dark, wooden table I was sitting in. I remember that next to me were books about the mountains and that I took one to skim through while waiting for my food to come.

And then, as I remember, I wish I wasn't sitting alone. I was grateful that I was back in the warm arms of civilization, but I also remember writing that I wish I had someone to tell about my adventures that day, to brag that it was the highest I had reached, that it was the climax of my hiking experience in the nearly one year I had been living in that mountain paradise of a country. I wanted to tell that person about the ibexes that I saw and the accompanying thoughts. But nothing. And so with that gratitude, I waited with some remnants of the preceding longing for the wonderful food that I would have to share with just myself, including the experience I would have with it.

Mean Encounter

"Why are you so mean?"
"What?"
"Why are you so mean?"
"What does it mean? 'Mean'? I don't understand."
The African man gave a final sigh of frustration and waved his hand to brush her away. The white flight attendant maintained her composure and walked away, ascertaining first that the safety procedures have been followed despite the brief confrontation.
What happened? The African man asked himself. He was standing at the baggage claims now, waiting for his bag. He was still livid, but he was calm enough to ask himself what happened. From the beginning of the flight they had a confrontation. He was writing an important message to his family in New York before flying to Madrid. He didn't pay attention to anything the announcements were saying, but he was also pretty sure that the message didn't get to him, either it wasn't said or it was in some heavy Spanish accent he didn't register as English. And she demanded that he shut off the phone now that not only was the door to the plane closed but the plane was actually pulling out of the gate. He remembered something about switching off all electronics around this time in his few previous flights. But he was angry that the woman used demanding language on him when he wanted to say good bye to his family he hadn't seen for a while and wouldn't see for a while either. Even though she made the threat, as soon as she walked away he finished sending the message. Only after getting off the plane did he realize he hadn't actually turned it off.

"So the plane didn't go down after all, them and their stupid rules, those White idiots."

Since that moment he felt she kept a keen eye on him, like a predator. She was emotionless, neither defiant nor supplicating. He wasn't used to a woman showing no sign of nervousness after a confrontation with him, but he had never dealt with a white woman before. Perhaps all the whites can do this to him because they made themselves better than him and his whole continent of perpetually oppressed fools.

When the plane started its descent, he realized he had to print the landing card for Spain. He wouldn't want to get in trouble with the authorities there. He was an African man, not even an African American who would have all the protections and benefits of the most powerful country in the world, but an African man with a very obvious African accent. The border guards would be delighted to come up with some excuse to bar him from entering the country. And why not, so many that look like him tried risking their lives entering that country, who would think he was going there to start a new and very high paying job? The skin of your color says a lot more about your designs for your new country than any potentials you have. That was what he thought as he tried very carefully fill out that form. But by the time he got to the passport part, that same white woman voice with an accent said in a very stern voice, "Sir, you must stop. Now. We are landing."

He couldn't understand why she was picking on him. He understood, but only as a concept. He couldn't understand that it was happening to him. Despite his education and everyone's optimism about him, he was still be singled out.

"Why are you making me stop?"

"Because we are landing."

Then she, treating him like a child, took his pen and paper, put them on his hands, then closed the tray. He was taken aback, but that wasn't over. She asked him to put his seat back. He didn't understand. So she did it for him. He got angry now. He deliberately pushed it back.

"You must have the seat upright."

"Why are you making me do this?"

"Everyone is doing this."

"Why are you doing this to me?"

"Sir, if you want, we can walk around and see that everyone has their seats upright. Sir, do you have a problem with security?"

"No, I don't have problem with security."

"If you and I have a problem, we will need to find a solution."

"Why are you being so mean to me?"

He was angry by then, but in retrospect, as he looked for his bags, he realized he was scared. He remembered then that his armpit was all wet. He was sitting there while the white woman with the composed face looked at him without flinching. And even when he was walking out and showed that he was much taller than she was, she didn't seem scared.

They were never scared. They were the superior race.

But when he got hold of his two big bags, he thought about what he did. And he got confused. He could not longer understand what was wrong and right. He couldn't get over the idea that anything the white people did could be right, could be anything but abuse. And he put down his bags and he sat on the edge of the conveyor, and he wondered until he also wondered if some white person would come over and tell him he was not allowed to sit there.

Christmas Dimsum

Christmas sometimes means saving every penny because you're spending every penny on presents. And few places are better to witness the parsimony than in the Chinese community. It's a cold and dreary day, and I just thought taking the taxi on a five-minute ride would be worth it compared to walking to the subway, waiting for the subway in the cold and then walking from the subway to where we were going to go for dimsum. It would probably have cost an extra 3 or 4 dollars. But my Dad was complaining about the dollar he spent on a pirate DVD that didn't even play what it claimed.

I went with my Mom, who is at least as cheap as my Dad. This is the environment I had grown up in, efficiency in time, space, and of course, money spending. I was impressed last night when she told me that Grandmother managed to pay off her mortgage to a condo in Jersey in just a few years with the meager income she had as a live-in housekeeper. That's the attitude, the tradition, we hold not only as Chinese but more precisely, Chinese immigrants who are living, apparently, in constant fear of destitution. Going to the subway has nearly always been a game of how to pay as little as possible by taking advantage of the Metro-card system. It's never illegal, just creative ways to save money. They used to share one monthly-pass. This time she refused the taxi option because she already had her monthly pass and she had an extra card for me. Why waste the extra possibly 4 dollars for comfort?? Sometimes I feel that comfort for them is something to enjoy after death.

When we arrived in the neighborhood full of Chinese shops, a mini Chinatown in the middle of an very ethnically diverse southern part of Brooklyn, we walked past a new Chinese eatery. (There are no restaurants here as the parsimony of the immigrants can't allow for the extravagance of a restaurant, I think.) My Mother immediate commented that it's probably very cheap there, but then again, it's a risk. Risk. Risk of getting bad food. So it's not about scrunching every penny, it's about efficacy: get the most out of your buck. And food is important in Chinese culture, people are in general more uptight about food than are many cultures I know. Why not? Food is one of the two things you have to pay for to survive: the other is shelter (which explains the general urgency among immigrants to buy a house). So we didn't risk our palates with that newly opened eatery with discounted food. Besides, there's hardly anyone inside.

Unlike where we ended up going: all packed. We had to wait a good ten minutes. My Mother wasn't a fan of waiting. What was the point of wasting time if you could just order take out (and take out doesn't require coughing up tips). Instead of lecturing her about the importance of sitting and relaxing, I simply said that the food would get cold by the time we got home. Yes, that would be bad, not only would the food be less savory, but you have lost some of your money. That was the thought process I was expecting her to be having when she agreed to wait.

Another thing about Chinese customs is that it's very common to share a table with strangers. Most tables were huge, family size, even though the eatery is tiny. Chinese people don't usually go and have lunch somewhere; they are much more efficient than that. Most would just make their own food, and others would just order take out. So when they do go it's usually for a family get together where it's harder to make so much food and, I think, they actually would enjoy the atmosphere. So we waited while my stomach got emptier just smelling the amazing dimsum and watching the families inspecting and maybe grabbing one of the plates of savory items from the women who were walking around the tables holding trays of these stomach filling palate satiating treats.

By the time we sat down, with a table of a family of many people, the line behind us had grown a lot. My Mom said it's pricier here. That was her first statement. So people were willing to pay to have good food, reinforcing my view that whenever money is exchanged, it's always a bargaining process wherein you must figure out what to pay that would give you the greatest yield. The tea, at least, is free, and it's not a cheap, generic jasmine tea, but a mix of chrysanthemum and pu'er, both by themselves my favorite but now mixed together, even better. I was super hungry by then, and I wanted to start ordering. But even I was starting to think in that efficient manner. What should I order that would maximum my experience here at minimum cost. I didn't want to try too many familiar things, and even with familiar things like the rice noodle stuffed with ground pork I only took one so I had space in the stomach for others. And when I didn't like two of the things I picked, I made a mental note on the lesson learned for next time so that, overall, life was a constant progression of lessons learned and increased efficiency. Funny thing is that I wasn't quite aware of what I was doing, but neither was I completely oblivious of my habits that were reflecting the general norms around me.

Towards the end, two "foreigners" sat next to us. For the Chinese immigrants here, most of whom came very recently, all non-Chinese were "foreigners", including the these two ladies who spoke with the purest of Brooklynese. I saw them waiting in line like everyone else, and I wondered if they would do as the Romans (us) and share a table. Indeed, they shared our table along with another family once the first, bigger family had left. Another thing about the Chinese is that they aren't really into lounging around after food with a cup of coffee and chat. Chatting happens during eating so that by the time eating is done, the purpose of dining is over. I don't think this is something practiced in China in general as tea is something to savor not only with food, but here, in the quasi-representative microcosm of that country inside a very different country, people are different, and in the end, neither like the Chinese nor like the two ladies sitting next to me now. The younger one seemed to know what to get, including a dimsum that I never had seen before and wished, by then, had the space in the stomach to fill it. It was a mini version of this traditional way of steaming sticky rich and pork or chicken with spices inside bamboo leaves. My Mother commented with some admiration and surprise that the two knew how to use chopsticks. I didn't want to tell her that all but one of my friends knew how to use chopsticks as well as I did.

Besides these two anomalies, the rest are Chinese immigrants, residents of this microcosm of super-efficiency. Just to make one more point. There are some dimsums here that I would like to order out for later, but my Mom said it was not a smart idea since we could make that at home for cheaper. Similar comment was made just yesterday when she proudly said that the vegetable dish she made would have cot $10 in a restaurant but she paid $2 for the fresh version to cook. I am sure other people, other ethnic groups, have this idea, but some, like my Mother, like to make a point about it, get urgent about it. And from this environment I grew up thinking in numbers, mathematics, computer science, financial market, and others. Numbers tell us very precisely how well we have done from the perspective of shaping those numbers in whatever we are doing.

Year-End Cleanup

The last day in this apartment this year. One day it would be the last day, period. But I am not there yet. I am just sweeping. Sweeping the dirt that's been colonizing my beautiful wooden floor while I was too busy going through the process called life. I am aware of the colonization, at least sometimes, but I never really stopped and thought about interrupting it. Don't know why. But it's the end of the year, the last day of the year, or decade, and at least today, I should clean up a little bit. Probably not mop.

And it's a strange experience. The process of sweeping. Some intellect is required but still, it's almost meditative. I notice the sweeps, each stroke, and the gratification of moving the colonists into the dust pan. It's my own bedroom. I never really take care of it. Why not? I am not taking care of myself that much, I guess. It reflects on your own behavior towards yourself, someone had told me.

Who was that someone?

Probably one of the people in the pictures on my very dusty dresser. I clean that even less often than I clean the floor, but I see it more often, every morning when I get up to find something to wear. I have noticed the thickening layer of dust over the year, or maybe more than a year.

But then again, I've always noticed the pictures more, if I had the mental energy to notice anything. They are supposedly the most important people in my life, my family, my friends. But then they all have played some dramatic role in my life, which, I suppose, isn't that unexpected; the most important people in your life are the central characters in any drama in your life. Usually.

And so I take the pictures down to clear the top of the dresser, and then I clean it. The gray layer of dust quickly become black streaks on my paper towel moistened with toxic cleaner. And out it goes. Then I turn my attention to the pictures. Their frames are covered with dust too. And one by one I clean while I look and let memories make their usual journey in my head. Where did I take this picture? Where were we? Yes, I remember. How did these people feel then? What were these people doing? Did I notice how they felt? How did I feel?

And how much has changed since that picture or this one. How much we have grown together or apart, and how much I have traveled in my personal journey since sitting with this important person or that at that time. And then I realize that it's the end of the year, a new page is turned even if the story simply continues from the last word of the current page to the first of the next. Chapters start randomly on a given page in my life. There has never been any blank space when one drama ends and the next one begins. And little by little the stories with the people in these pictures come visiting again, like relatives do over the holiday break that marks the end of the year.

There's something satisfying about cleaning these picture frames. The pictures do seem noticeably clearer, the smiles more radiant, and I feel in a metaphorical way I have cleaned something of the past. I have somehow, brightened the past, almost as if I had made some amends. All the pictures were of happy moments, but they remind me of the grander picture of which they are a simply smart part, and it's that grander picture in my head that I am attempting to clean a little.

I place the pictures back on the dresser, but not in the same way they had been sitting for more than a year now. I don't remember how they were arranged before, but it doesn't really matter. I am looking forward to another year, and I am arranging the past in the way I'd like to become in the future. and whatever happens next, I still have these pictures, at least in my head, that I should clean every now and then, at least just so I can take the time to look at them, look at the important parts of this dynamic setting called my life.

Missed that Goodbye

Sometimes the worst regret is knowing that you could've said goodbye, but you didn't.

You just didn't. Couldn't. Or simply wouldn't.

She sat there until her turn came. She rose and walked slowly, shaking with sorrow but also fear. Why did she want to do this? She didn't have to. It would be the first time she saw his face like this, whatever it would be, it would be peaceful but a little false, of course. And it would be the last time she would see his face, this way or any way, present, in front of her.

She almost wanted to stop. No, she couldn't go on, not to see that face she had become so familiar with, after all these years. She just saw it last week. By then they had stopped mentioning the engagement that she had broken off a year ago. By then they were civil to each other. But still at that time, she couldn't really face him. She called off the wedding. She did the right thing, she kept telling herself. She wasn't ready. She would have made him miserable, made herself miserable being with someone she wasn't ready to have in her life. That time, last week, he drove her to the mechanic where her beat-up car was now less beat-up. She didn't really want to go with him, to let him do this favor for him, but she also missed him.

Then there was the guilt. She hurt him very badly when after all the invitations were sent out, all the catering was arranged, all the bride's maids' dresses were paid for, all the tuxedos were reserved, all the expectations have risen to their collective summit, she called it off. Her heart knew that he was the one. Her best friend had no doubts either. But neither one wanted to push her to a path she wasn't ready to take. So guilt and real love, real longing, nudged her to call him and ask him for this favor. The call wasn't easy either. They hadn't talked so much this whole year since the wedding was called off. She was shaking then, calling him. She was ready to be loud and ready to show she was strong and that she wasn't feeling guilty and that she had moved on and that he was nothing more than a friend.

But just as now, she was shaking.

And when she heard his voice, its familiarity, its tenderness, all seemed suddenly made only for her, all the love in that voice was made only for her ever since it was conceived decades ago. She almost burst out in tears. But she had always been a strong girl, so she said in an almost rude manner in asking for the favor. He agreed, obviously. She almost wished he hated her and hadn't even picked up the phone, let alone agreed to the favor.

She was shaking again when she heard his car pull up in front of her apartment on the first floor of a huge co-op on the outskirts of the Bronx. They call it Co-op City. She is both proud and ashamed of still living here, where she was born and raised. And there it was, the sound of his car, his engine, humming as if just for her, longing for her. But she was prepared. There would be no nonsense. She wasn't sure, she told herself, why she even allowed him to do this favor for her. And when she saw him, she felt love and hate, for everyone, including herself. He seemed very calm, even his big smile. He wasn't jumping up and down, but he was certainly very happy to see her. The previous time was about three months before, and it was a little awkward, with her talking loud and continuously while he kept quiet most of the time, which was a little out of character for him.

And in the car, going through the usual messy traffic in Eastern Bronx with all those highways like tentacles spreading into the two boroughs on the other side of the rivers, they chatted, almost like the old times. But she had her guard up, very strong and high, and ever more alert the more he seemed so forgiving, the more she felt connected to him. There is no space, no room, no time for guilt.

But then time stopped.

She made an immense effort to swallow her tears and looked at his face. It was as she had expected, peaceful but false. There would be no smile anymore. Under all that makeup was a cold face. All the times she had touched his face it was warm, tender. Here, what a contrast, it was, as she imagined, frozen in time, rigid in space. But most clearly of all, it was no longer responsive. It no longer would show disappointment at her rejections or disapprovals, no longer frown at her silliness or screams, no longer bearing sorrow when she hurt him, and of course, no longer smiling when she said hello.

And so if she were to say goodbye now, she wouldn't get any response. And that broke the dikes and all the fluid of her emotions exploded out of her eyes, her nose, and all the pressure of her anger and guilt thundered out of her lips as her arms tried to hold her chest in check. It was too late to say goodbye now. Last time when she saw him, when he dropped her off, she didn't want him to wait for him. The car was ready. She didn't let him be a gentleman and open the door for her. They were just friends. She didn't even thank him. She, of course, didn't say goodbye. She was just running away from it all. She looked at his car as it pulled on reverse and then left. He wasn't upset. She saw that he was content. She got a little angry, but didn't think about her failing to say goodbye.

Why is it important to say goodbye to someone you might never see again? Whom is the goodbye for? Is it a way to connect? But why bother with someone you'll never see again. Why even more if you don't actually want that person to go.

The tears didn't stop rushing out for a while, and as friends helped her move away from the man she still hadn't said goodbye to, the man she could've said her last goodbye to many decades later if life had been different, as she moved away, the man in the casket remained calm, remained the same, unresponsive, and unyielding to the dramas of the heart.

Twilight Thoughts

In that apartment I did a lot, and I don't mean when I was with her, I just mean when I was alone. I baked there. I made dinner there. I showered there. I watched movies there. Mostly, I was keeping warm there. But above all, what I remember was the light. I was using her desk, and the orange incandescent light contrasted sharply with the dimming blue light from the windows. It was late evening. I was sitting at her desk. A camera was behind me, and the shutter was released remotely by me, and only me, alone, in her apartment. The lens saw that contrast. The sad, almost funereal blue light from the dying day outside, a wintry day, so cold outside, and the isolated warmth of the apartment without any other light on. And there I was, a silhouette in the narrow darkness between the two lights, the cold light, the warm light. And my silhouette melted almost into the darkness that the two lights couldn't reach. I was writing. I was thinking. My mind was straying back and forth between similarly cold and warm ideas. I couldn't believe I was in that apartment. I was there, alone, alone with so many memories of "us", the opposite of alone. We did so much there, and now I was alone. It was New Year's Eve and I was waiting for something in the oven to finish before bringing it to a friend of mine. The smell of the roasting ribs brought some pleasantness to my senses, but still, I was swinging between the cold thought of my loneliness and the warm thoughts of the past, the cold thought of her absence, and the warm thoughts of her erstwhile smiles in that sofa not too far from where I was sitting.

It was so warm in the apartment. Free heat. I was making myself comfortable. I knew the place well, nearly every corner, even the patterns of the brick I would have recognized in a photograph. The warm thoughts of being accepted in someone's home, in her life, in her body, even in her thoughts. The cold thought that I was alone, sent out in the cold, freezing, shivering from fear of a permanent eviction, quaking with yearning for some extra layers of protection from the very person who caged me in my loneliness. And despite the smell of the roasting ribs, I could still smell her. Her scent was everywhere. Not just on her clothes, but her seat, her bedsheets, even in the kitchen. Everywhere.

The kitchen counter was cold, but by stroking its uneven surface the texture of the wood at the touch of my fingertips was making music of my memories as the strings do when stroked by a violin bow. I remembered us cooking together, talking, and the warmth of those thoughts sent shivers to my spine, ever so much lonelier.

And I wondered why she let me be here in her absence. Why was I evicted from her life and yet allowed the solitude of being in her apartment. Maybe a bit of torture, with all these warm, glowing thoughts of an isolated apartment when the reality of the outside, of the world, is a subzero chill in the waning last moments of a wintry end of the year.

Broken Twice

The photo lay flat on the table, almost as if it were draping the memories of the event that it captured as an image. It was a casual setting in which the two people were sitting in the center. One is a very young and beautiful woman with an amazing smile. Holding her hands is a much older man, not smiling, looking towards the camera but somehow past it too. The walls and the sofa where they were sitting were all pinkish. It was something like a posh hotel lobby.

I say to the woman who was in that picture a few years ago that I notice that the gentleman wasn't smiling at all. She is busy going through all these photos, and without looking at me, says that he had recently lost his second wife. Ah, now I remember the story. She had mentioned earlier about him, a professor she knew in the university, someone she respected. He used to be a powerful man, but eventually life beat him down to his knees. Something like Job but nothing of the sort that inspires anyone to love God more.

I look more carefully at his face. The more I see his eyes, his wrinkles, his facial muscles, how taut they have become, the more I see the sadness, the hopelessness in his eyes. He lost a wife a while back, who was survived not only by him but also by two other children. Those children suffered as he did, but they all thought they had found an angel to take them from their misery when the professor later found a much younger woman. She was an amazing person, a true angel, if there was one. She took up the children as if they were her own, and she also bore him a child. When his first wife died, he was shocked that he would be attending his own wife's funeral. Being a doctor himself, he had guessed that as with most cases, his wife would be going to his funeral. But that was all put past them. They had a new start with a loving, energetic woman in the family.

But that was until she, too, succumbed to the same cancer that her husband's first wife had been a victim of. How can that be?

I ask myself that question. How can this man, already past his primes and should be enjoying the success of his youthful hardwork and endeavors, how could he be spending time seeing his hopes dashed so violently off the horse of God's favors and to suffer again. How was it that a young woman would still leave this world before him and leaving him with children who each needed an equal measure of condolence? There was a lot of grief in the family, and on this shiny, two-dimensional representation of some random day, I can see the utter sorrow of his grief, as if he was wearing it, as if he were carrying it on his shoulders, and the smile next to him only accentuated the gravity of his mourning process.

Distraction

The music is delightful, as usual. It's a waltz and I am accompanying the lady of the moment in turns and sweeps. And just when it's almost done, I saw her walk in. There's a lot of snow outside, so people are treading in snow and muck, and she's no different. But that's not the first thing I notice. As always, her wondering eyes. She comes in always and surveys the scene. I pretend I don't see her, but that also means I don't know if she sees me, notices me. I stole another look when the song is over, and I saw that she was putting her things down. Now I will enjoy my company for the last song of the set. Still, I can't help it, I am distracted, my heart is racing for a different reason than the song now. I feel guilty; I should be concentrating on the dance, on the lady I currently am with, but I can't help it, I steal another look and see that she's sitting down with a glass of water, waiting for someone to ask her to dance. I close my eyes, and try not to think about her. Think about the song, and there, the vocal comes up, I know this song, I know it in Spanish, its title means to dream and nothing more. That's what I am doing, just dreaming in this waltz. I open my eyes and I find myself in front of her. (I am quite amazed that I didn't get us crash into someone in my revelry.) Now suddenly my body desires to show off. So I did. I am not sure if she's watching at all, but I am showing off, giving her a preview of what she could be doing with me.

Yes, I feel guilty, but still, I am more nervous and guilty.

I don't look at her. I am supposed to be concentrating on my partner, our dance, our music. Maybe she is jealous? Hopefully.

Finally, the song is over, the set is over, and I thank my lady companion profusedly. It's not all insincere. She is a great dancer, made herself beautiful in the directions that I offered. We had a great time. And I thanked her for it. Usually, I would just dance another set with her, but I can't wait. As if I have to go pee or something. I made sure she felt appreciated despite the lack of dancing to a second set.

I don't have my glasses, but all this time I could see her well. I come up to her and saw the big smile she has on her face. Wow, that's the smile that is the tip of the javelin thrown at my heart. I said to her I didn't have my glasses, and she looked around saying that she saw them somewhere. How did she know what my glasses looked like? But then I said with some degree of suave that I didn't need them if she would be so kind as accept my invitation to a dance. She shook her head in enthusiasm. And there it began again, a very sweet dance. In this dance, I can always, if I want to, imagine that the lady I am with is actually my lady, my adoration, as they say in the songs, mi vida, mi corazón, mi amor. And with everyone else I would understand that this pretending, the deliberate self-delusion, doesn't go beyond the end of the song, and certainly not beyond the end of the set when we stop dancing. But with her, I can't do it. I allow myself to open up, throw open all gates and let whatever out from withal or in from without.

During the breaks I would make dumb comments and she would laugh at them. I would gently make fun of her, and she would tease back.

Yet, in the back of my mind, there is a sentry in the city of open gates, and he is looking out for anything truly outrageous. It's that sentry that tells me that her big smiles, her enthusiasm to my offer to dance, her laughing at my quips, all might not mean anything. I am just being me, and she's happy with that, but then beyond that is just imagination, guesses, and to believe it's in anyway a reality, would be dangerous, would cause famine and pillaging in the city of my open heart.

We danced another set, but I didn't want to give away too much. She knows how much I enjoyed dancing with her, but I wanted her to not be too complacent. I wanted her to also know that there was uncertainty. For that reason I never contacted her outside dancing. No. For her, my enthusiasm and laughter didn't go beyond the context of the dance and the atmosphere of the dance. And so this time it's no different; after two sets I thanked her and gave her a big hug and big smile, but then we went off our separate ways, to other dances, other dancers. But she didn't walk away from me in my mind. For the remainder of the night she was with me the whole time.

What differentiated this time from previous, however, was that I told her, after giving her the big hug, that before she disappeared, as she usually did so before I left, I wanted her to make sure we said goodbye. She smiled and said, "Sure." I could barely contain my heart at that smile. Her smile is so simple, so sincere, and so full of life. It would be the last dance we had together this year, this decade. And also in this event people brought in food and cakes. I brought in a cake. So we had more occasions to chitchat over sweets. Still, I tried not to give away too much, make her wonder, as she seems to like doing in general.

When I was done dancing with a lady a while later, I saw her removing her shoes and putting on her still mucky boots. I got nervous. I asked the lady if she wanted to continue, and she gladly obliged. This was going to be a very nerve-wrecking dance, and I only hope I do a good job with the lady I was with now. It was, interestingly, another waltz. Its meaning is "Who is she? Who is she?" That's my cue. Who is she? I actually don't know that much more than her smiles, her connection to my dance and my dumb remarks, and her profession. But what else? I tried not to pay attention to her, but hoped very much that she would keep her word and make sure to say goodbye to me. In the past people would miss that promise and later just send a text apologizing. I was too nervous to even consider this sad possibility. When the dance was over, I pretended not to look for her, making sure she didn't go, ready to accept the inevitable text message of apology later. But then she came up and I turned and pretended I was surprised and then sad that she was leaving. I apologized then to the lady I was with that I needed to go off for a bit but that I would ask her again later. She was happy to accommodate. We have such a nice community here. Besides, wasn't it obvious what was going on?

I walked down the stairs with her and in front of the exit door, I said her, after making more quips and straining to smile, "Hey listen, I think you have a really great sense of humor that goes with your amazing smile. (MY whole body is shaking.) When we both come back next year, next decade, really, I'd like to hang out more." Was I looking at her? I was I just repeating those words that I have committed to memory like a mantra? Was it my heart speaking? Did she see it? Was she going to tell me that she had a boyfriend? "That's too bad, but if you want, we can still hang out as friends. Up to you! (Smile!)" was what I would have said. Or maybe add in "I hope we can still dance, I think you're great!" This was the first time I did such a thing, letting a girl know I was interested in her without telling her straight like that, and without waiting for her to figure it out herself before hand. What would she say?

Last Train

It's strangely odd, to be here, on the train, on my way to New York to dance for the last time there this year. I haven't really thought of the finality of this year, the feeling of finality, at least, until now, slowly. Last night I went out for the last time with a friend of mine this year. And there will be more "last times this year" in the remaining week, well, just five days, I am here in my town, then a little bit in New York, my home town, and then off to my little break during which I cross over to the next decade.

So it's also the last time this decade.

They say it's not so significant, all these dates, because they really are artificially imposed by us who live by the calendar. But feelings matter, and we feel a certain finality to things towards the end of December. A lot of people mark it by doing immense amount of shopping. Then making sure they meet everyone that need to be met, especially if they haven't seen them as a result of lacking an excuse. Then there's New Year's Eve, and everyone has some sort of sentimental mark about it on the calendars in their hearts.

But now I am sitting in a rather empty car on the Metro North to New York. Ironically, it is my first time taking the train to New York in the evening. It's usually a late morning or early afternoon train so I can enjoy New York in addition to any late night dance. But today I had my own final checklist to take care of, to make the digital presents for the people I finally found an excuse this year to send things to. And then I tried to sleep, to nap, so I can be more prepared for the long night. That didn't happen. I was just thinking and thinking.

It was also the first time I parked at the train station garage. I have never tried because it's always full during the day. There is always the red letters of the word "FULL" except for passholders. But today, in the darkness of the late evening, I was greeted by green letter of "ENTER". And after checking the price, quite expensive, I continued on, passing a long line of cars exiting the garage. It was strange to be inside this place. I had been here once to retrieve my bike when one time I biked here. Today I drove because there's a snowstorm coming and I didn't feel like dealing with the snow and my car tomorrow morning. I suppose I could have taken the taxi and deal with the snow tomorrow morning when I will need my car. And besides, maybe there won't be a lot of snow. Still, despite the hefty parking fee, it was a first time, and I often like first times.

It has also occurred to me that this is the last time I am taking the Metro North to New York this year, this decade. I will be riding in a car when I return there in a few days, and that's the end of that. I am glad that the last trip on the train to New York has already been memorable. There's a general hubbub about the snow that has covered much of the East Coast, and flakes have started to fall here; and the conductor had just said that there's already plenty of snow in New York. I don't have my boots, but I won't really need them for long since I will be changing into my dance shoes. It will be odd walking in the snow in the middle of the night in New York. Walking among those expensive apartments, where expensive apartments house expensive lives that will be getting ready to sleep. It will probably be festive too because this is the end of the year, with Christmas and other secondary holidays all crammed in at the same time, making lots of lights and other decorations in the city.

And then there's the ending. After it's over it will be another hour or two before the first train leaves. What will I do? Sit at a 24-hour diner for a while? I suppose. I don't even know if they will be open since there's snow and therefore fewer customers. I can always take the subway, up and down some line, hopefully safe. Imagine that's my last night out in New York, ending it with a subway ride until the first Metro North train gets ready to leave. Who knows what will happen. For some reason, I am not so concerned. I am in for some adventure. Keep an open mind. As long as my feet can walk and I have my wits about me, I can do anything. It will be cold, but so what. It will be dark, but there will be streetlights. Nothing will be open, but then the city is open. Of course, I can't be walking around with my thin shoes and even thinner socks.

And the dance itself? I wonder if they will do anything special since it is the last one of the year, of the decade. If they make it long, I will be very happy. But we will see. Life will arrange itself according to some method I can't understand or really need to. I will just do whatever the moment asks for.

Snow Memory

The snow is coming, and in huge dumps from the skies. Already I can hear the sound of compacting snow underneath my boots.

Where are my boots?

It would be too early for the people to clear up the snow, with their raw muscles or fancy machines. It would dark, in the evening, and I would be walking on the snow, some sections of the sidewalk still untrod, on others I would just be following the footsteps of previous individuals testing the fresh crystals from the sky.

There were times when snow was still falling, by the huge flakes, onto my nose, my eye lashes. And maybe there was someone with me, whose eyelashes were also catching the snowflakes. Someone I wanted very much to be with and yet our small physical distance was deceptively hiding the gulf I felt between us.

It's always so quiet during or right after a blizzard, save the howling wind that sometimes accompany any blizzard or its aftermath. So quiet that the compacting of the snow makes the silence even more noticeable. And you can even hear the scraping sound between different parts of your jacket. And you look up and see Mother Nature busy shoveling snow from her porch in heaven down to earth as the snowflakes scatter quietly in the darkness except where the streetlamps were. The dark branches of the night slowly betray their forms by harboring white snowflakes on their shoulders.

In the snow sometimes you will see small holes made most likely by dogs walked by the makers of the footprints you're stepping in. I sometimes noticed a lot of things when whether I was alone or not. The difference was that when I was alone I thought about the person who would take away that aloneness.

But why would I be walking alone in the middle of the night?

Because it was better to enjoy the romance alone than not enjoy it at all. I remember there times when I just got out on my own and see what the blizzard's silence was like, to accompany that silence with the compacting of the snow with my small boots. And now, I sit here, in the relative warmth of my bed, anticipating the snow tomorrow, and wonder about this winter, wonder about the little details of snow, during and after a blizzard, and what would accompany me in my journey to experience another wintry life.

Roadside Food

There is something about roadside food and the sadness I see in my life. I don't mean that roadside food is surrounded by sadness, is among sadness. No. Just that the few times I have traveled and had roadside food, that day, I was reminded or heard a story of something sad from my friends. Let me randomly go through my memory stick called the brain. One time I was outside the Muslim quarters of the ancient city of Xi'an, where you go to see the Chinese terracotta soldiers. My travel companion told me that the spicy noodles we were having reminded her of her grandmother, whom she loved dearly, but had just passed away before our trip started. If the trip weren't so monumental in every way, she would have postponed it. I let her talk about it, to the point when her eyes were all teary, not just from the super spicy broth whose mere steam would draw tears. We sat by the eatery for a good deal of time, to the point that I knew her grandma almost as much as mine (though admittedly, I don't know mine that well at all.)

Another time I was outside my office, where there's a whole slew of food carts selling stuff from local restaurants, though by "local" we mean the whole county. I was waiting for my food after ordering, and then this voice called out. It was from my Spanish conversation partner. I thought he had left, or at least I'd not see him again. He was very happy to see me, cut in front of everyone without noticing it and ordered his food while commencing a conversation with me. It was the medical area, which means the hungry doctors, and nurses, and patients, and the equal number of researchers draw in a lot of carts for business. He, on the other hand, was not any of the above from the medical area. So it was an even greater surprise that I saw him there. I wasn't shy about my surprise, and he said he was surprised too, by his own presence. And as we started walking towards this open area where everyone was sitting, he told me he was happy to see me, thinking that he wouldn't. He was sad to be leaving everyone. He had had to say goodbye to a lot of friends he had made in the few months he had been here. We had already had our semi-sad farewells, so I guess I would have to have another one now, just a week later. He had told me that first time that he was going to miss this woman he was seeing. They had been dating in some clandestine manner, why clandestine, I don't really know. She wasn't married, though she still had young children from her divorce. Perhaps they were hiding him from the kids. They would meet everyday, go out everyday, but then she would always have to go back home on the other side of the state line. It was always a sad story, sadder because you know how it would end. Even with real love it wouldn't have worked, and here the clandestine nature made any claims of love quite questionable. He had said that they would spend one more night together, near her house, so neither would have to travel far when departing. They had some ideas about how to meet up, but, let's face it, once you're out of college, you stop allowing yourself to be romantic, to wear the robe of self-deception again. So it was all good, all realistic. Now he was sitting in front of me, all sad after the smiles of surprise, saying that the last night was beautiful, amazing, and that his heart was aching. Perhaps he should walk a block down to see the cardiologist, but I wasn't going to cheer him up with such a crude joke. I asked what he was going to do, and with a typically Spanish smile of enjoy-life-now-and-not-worry, he said simply that he was sad but was happy with whatever had happened.

I can remember one more, at least, occasion of sadness connected to roadside food. It was really part of a festival, I think. I was in a historically German town in Romania. I heard German spoken, a slight relief from all the Romanian I had been listening to and not understand nearly everything, despite my OK level of Italian back then. A sadness episode had already happened when I was followed around by a Gypsy girl who thought my attention to her merit some extra effort in whatever scheme she had for me. I didn't detest her for her scheming, just felt sorry that she had to do this instead of playing and that whatever she was up to wasn't sophisticated enough to fool me. But that's not what I wanted to mention. I went to the sweets section after all that fatty sausages. A short, thin, young woman whose face was too weathered by the sun and the elements, were selling these things you find all over Eastern Europe (though each country will tell you it's from there and that the other cultures stole them). She had a very bad set of teeth, which chipped a little away from her otherwise beautiful smile. I was all smiles, not sure why. She didn't speak English, or German, for that matter. But we did our best using our arms. She was from around here, I gathered, and she pointed out her mother, who was emerging from the shades having observed our discussion. Suddenly the emaciated girl became a showcase for the older lady. I realized that she was less interested in selling me this hand-made and hand-painted thing that resembled a ping-pong paddle with chickens lining the side so that when you twirl it the chickens bob their heads as if eating from the center. She was more interested in getting me to consider her daughter as a bride. I thought it was hilarious until I realized, reading her eyes, that she was serious. Her daughter was thoroughly embarrassed by whatever sales pitch in Romanian the older woman was blabbering so passionately. No doubt they were from a village nearby. There was probably a man in the equation, the father, working hard or doing something else, who knows. I felt sad. I didn't understand their story, but I know enough from my journeys to imagine and piece things together. In a country that would join the European Union in a few years, here was a woman hoping her daughter would strike it rich with someone whose racial and ethnic group they probably had never seen before. But life was tough, and beggars aren't choosers. It wasn't easy to walk away, but I had a feeling that no high hopes were dashed, and life just went on.

So now I think about these and other memories of street food connected to sadness as I munch on this plate of freshly grilled lobster on a seaside town near the Mekong Delta in Vietnam. There are plenty of poor people, poorer than that Romanian girl, if she could imagine it. There are plenty of goodbyes made as the country's social fabric is shifted, sometimes torn, by modernization. There are plenty of funerals here, as is everywhere. And I look around, wondering what sad story will spring up around me in on cool spring day. A friend of mine is probably going through a divorce. Any minute now, my phone will ring, or at least an text message. There's plenty of sadness if you care to look for it, but here I am having an exotic meal in an exotic corner of the world.

Asking for a Name

There was this lady in a pink skirt dancing with the host, who was having fun in front of the camera crew he had allowed to film them for some commercial. I had never seen that lady before and wondered who she was. I was curious. I asked my friends, and none remembered her name. Then one suggested, "Why not ask her friends?" Suddenly I felt thrown against a wall, my own wall. That booth full of women? I was going to just go up there and ask them the name of that lady in the pink skirt? That was what I responded, more or less. But I was fascinated by the wall against which I was thrown, my own wall. Why is it there? Why did it have to be there? Where did it come from?

It was a wall of my timid self. Asking a bunch of women? about the name of another woman I never even spoke to? Wouldn't they think I had a crush or something? They didn't even know who I was. Would they be suspicious? Curious? Fascinated? I don't know.

But it took me a few seconds to overcome that wall. It felt cold, but it wasn't that high, and there weren't much of a barbed wire on the top. So I turned and walked up to the booth of ladies watching their friend dance in front of the camera. They were definitely caught off guard. But I wasn't sure if I was that cool. I probably didn't even say, "How are you doing, ladies!" or even "Hey, what's up!" Maybe, just maybe, a simple "Hi". And quickly, without introducing myself, I launched the offensive, "What's your friend's name over there?" Half of them looked perplexed. The other half seemed interested, curious. I got the name. But I am not sure if I even said "Thanks!" I can't remember. I was that nervous, I guess. Overcoming the wall means you're exhausted by the time you get to the other side.

So why was that hard? Hard for me. Hard for the ladies who were caught off guard. It would have been much simpler and less stressful. I could have just walked over, smiled, introduced myself, chitchat for a sentence or two, then ask.

But I seemed to feel I was doing something strange, if not outright wrong, out of the ordinary, improper. I worried too much about how I was presenting myself that I didn't end up presenting myself in any normal way. But when you're so flustered already, it's hard to know what to do. Then again, why was I so flustered? There's a question of self-confidence, to believe that what you're doing isn't something wrong. To be clear of your intentions and then execute it with that clarity. It's ironic that I was in tango, a dance that requires confidence and clarity of intention. So perhaps the lesson is that like tango, if you don't already have that confidence, then you should just keep trying until you gain that confidence. It isn't lost completely.

Through the Valley of the Shadow

Jakob was the name they call him. He sat at his usual seat by the bar in this little shack just outside the tourist compound of the Lobo Wildlife Lodge. The two scars on the right side of his face were barely visible from the sweat and the dimness of the bar, where American oldies were being played to the turn of the ceiling fans. It was just after sunset and it was still incredibly hot. The usual crowd hadn't arrived yet, but his friend, Charles, just walked in and, having spoken to the bartender, approaches Jakob with a big smile, as usual. "Hello my man Jakob!" said the short Kenyan to the park ranger. He grabbed Jakob's free hand and gave him a tight hug. The tall, Maasi Jakob forced a smile and gripped his friend's offered hand tight.

"What's happened to you, Jakob? Mbaatu over there said you've been here the whole day, since this morning, just sitting there like a zombie but not drinking all the whiskey in the house!" said the Kenyan, still smiling as he sat next to his friend. After he ordered his glass of Scotch on the rocks, his park ranger friend murmured, "Just wasting my time, like usual."

"That ain't true, my man. You are always out there, driving around your beat-up jeep, looking for trouble," said his friend and laughing.

"Trouble, yeah, lots of trouble," said the Maasi, not smiling anymore, and then downed his last drop of bourbon.

"Hey, what's wrong with you? You got in trouble? Those poachers shot back at you this time?" asked his friend, looking more serious now.

"No, not like that. They've been behaving. Not sure why. Maybe they've killed all the elephants and rhinos," the Maasi joked. He gave a sigh and looked at his friend, finally. It was his first time looking at anyone that day, since that morning. At that moment the wind could be heard swaying the sad-looking trees outside suffering from the drought. "Hopefully it will rain," said the park ranger, changing his gaze to the window outside. The sky was clear blue, dark, with remnants of the setting sun, butt he gust of wind also brought in the vicious heat.

"Hey, Mbaatu, get me some water, will ya?" asked the ranger.

"So what sort of trouble?" asked the concerned friend.

He noticed that his friend was staring in his glass, and his eyes were holding back something very heavy. He had known him for over ten years, when Jakob started working at the park. He was one of the few who ventured out of his Maasi life and joined the government but still worked in the place where he was born and raised, where he loved the animals and the earth that supported all life. He was educated and understood a lot about the natural world as well as the complex social changes that have been driving the changes in this part of the world where poachers, tourists, natives, and corruption all meet and mingle. Charles was a business man, honest by African standards, and he was also passionate about wildlife here, but he made money by helping tourists and tour agencies navigate through all the muck of governments and locals on this border between two of the more stable countries in Africa. He had an office at that big lodge where tourists could feel they were in the heart of Africa without being eaten by its cruelties and idiosyncrasies. Jakob saved Charles and some tourists once when they were dumb enough to wander into this valley of lions.

"Remember that valley? The Seronera?" suddenly the mute park ranger started talking, having given some silent moment in the presence of his friend.

"Of course! You saved my ass, along with the white asses of those Germans, or were they French? They just didn't speak English that well!" said the smiling Kenyan.

"Right. That was also during a dry spell. But not like now. Now even more animals have died. All the rivers have dried up, most of the zebras and wildebeests have either died or migrated, and probably died on their way too," said the ranger, drinking his cold water.

"So?" asked his friend.

"But there are still a few, struggling lions down there. They've licked all the carcasses clean and are struggling with whatever bugs and I don't know what."

He sighed and then looked at the Kenyan, and asked, "Do you remember Mr. Willoughby?" The Kenyan businessman thought for a second and asked, "The old American? Yes, why? I am surprised you know him. He's very quiet and doesn't go out."

Mr. Willoughby. The American. His image, his face, his posture, even his smell, still lingered in Jakob's mind. He looked down at his warming water, and then said, "He's so old. He could barely walk. I noticed him when he arrived in the Lodge; I was there that day trying to get some tourists to go on a tour. I noticed him. His eyes were dark, like someone turned off the light. His face extremely emaciated. And he walked with a slight tremor. He was with this black woman from America too. She had to help him a lot. It was she, I think her name was Tisha, who told me about him."

"About what?" asked the inquisitive Kenyan.

Jakob looked up at his friend and said, in a slightly louder voice, "I can't be a park ranger anymore. I don't know what else to do. But I am not even human, I don't think."

That brought shock to his friend, who sat up straight suddenly, and asked, "What are you talking about?"

"Last night I was hanging out at the Lodge, after bringing some tourists back from the bird show. There aren't many birds left, but they still got a kick out of it. Before I was going to leave, Mr. Willoughby surprised me. He was alone. We had talked before when I was there. He would ask how I was doing, what I did that day, if I liked being an outsider Maasi, telling me I had a great future, or how sad it was that the animals were dying in so many ways. But he always had that Tisha woman with him. This time no. This time also I saw something different. He was usually dressed very slovenly. Not like the other white people. He was very casual, didn't care much, except talking to me about my work and the Park. But that evening he had light in his eyes, very faint. And he shaved too! Wearing a linen shirt. And then he said, 'Jakob. You know about my situation. I know Tisha told you. I know you're a good man.' Then he sat me in a corner table and ordered some food for me. No one has done that for me, and I was feeling strange. He then said, 'I want you to do me a favor. I want you to take me to that valley you told me about? The valley that you saved your friend and some tourists from.' I didn't think much of it, and said, 'Sure. You want to see the last of the lions still there?' 'Yes,' he said, with a bigger smile, greater interest. 'When?' I asked. 'Just before dawn. I want to arrive just before dawn,' he said, 'And Tisha won't be coming. I want to go without her.' 'But what if you get sick, sir? Will you have your medication with you?' He laughed and said, 'I won't need it. I will be fine.' 'But this is your first time out of the lodge, if I am not mistaken>' I asked. 'Yes, it would be good to have some fresh air. It's an important day tomorrow. Did I tell you? I follow this sect of Tibetan Buddhism, and tomorrow is an important day.' I remembered that he told me something about Tibetan, but I didn't quite understand it. So I thought nothing more about it. Still, I was concerned about his health.

"You see," Jakob continues after drinking the rest of his warm water, "He's got leukemia. And he faints sometimes, has no appetite. And I wouldn't know what to do if he did that on the trip. And you know it's a rough ride. He saw I was still concerned about his health, so he put his hand on mine, and said, 'Please do this favor for an old, white man. Money isn't a problem. But I just don't want Tisha to come along. I want to be free. You know it's been nearly twenty year's that I had been taken care of? It was just the cancer. Not just the treatment. But also I had all these other diseases before that. You'd be doing this old body a huge favor by driving me there. Nothing will happen to me. You don't have to worry. I know this broken shack of a body of mine by now. Mornings are never a problem. Especially with that fresh, cool morning air.'

"His assurance worked. And the next morning, I picked him up from the lodge, but from the backdoor, as he had requested, as if he was trying to avoid people. He was wearing a something weird. Some costume or something. He explained on our hour-long trip that it was his priestly robe. He explained that he was actually a priest type in his religion. And today he was 'entering the valley of shadow', which sounded very Christian to me, the little I knew from watching American movies," Jakob said with a fleeting smile. His friend got him another glass of water and he continued, "He then started talking about his religion. About the idea of returning to the universe from which we are born. I told him that after meeting him, I looked into Tibetan culture, got fascinated, and asked him then if the sky burial was related to what he said. Then he had a big smile and said, 'Not exactly. That's what most people in Tibetan culture did. But in his sect, it didn't matter. We are sort of practical since there aren't always vultures hovering over your carcass and ripping it apart.'

"We arrived at the entrance of the valley and then I took into the serengeti, off road, it got rough, though I tried to be gentle, but he didn't seem fazed, just looking into the distance as we entered the valley with little of the twilight helping us. About ten minutes later, I stopped and explained, 'See that troth over there? There used to be a river, now it's all hardened mud. And if you wait a little while, you will see the lionesses.' And I was right. About fifteen minutes later, and Mr. Willoughby had a lot of patience, the shadows started moving around on the other side of the dried river. It was very quiet, this morning. The sun was still another hour away, but you could make things out already. The dried grass was making little hushed sounds. The lionesses knew we were here, but they also knew there wasn't anything interesting because they were used to our impenetrable jeep. Mr. Willoughby then said, 'So beautiful, these ladies, but so dreadfully emaciated.' He was looking through a binocular he took out from his leather bag that I hadn't noticed before.

"Then there was silence again. There were no animals around us, except for those tortured creatures on the other side of the dead river. Then my nightmare began," said the ranger, whose hand started shaking a little, "Mr. Willoughby turned to me and said, in the most calm and serene voice, with his face suddenly looking so much younger, even happier than last night when I saw the light in his eyes for the first time, 'Good bye Jakob. Thanks for everything. You should go home now.'" He put his hands on mine and gripped them tightly to thank me. 'But Mr. Willoughby, what do you mean?' He then took out a wad of American dollars from his bag and said, 'This is what I have left after all the charities and enough for Trisha to live on for the rest of her life. This is for you. I don't need anything, and really, never did. I've been so afraid to walk through the valley of the shadow and only last week I realized I had to. I suddenly had no more fears. I always knew what I needed to do, but my life, so full of nonsense and complexities, built this big wall around me. But now I will return to the universe.' He then turned to grab the handle to open the door, but I grabbed his other arm and implored him, 'What are you doing, sir? I don't understand!' 'Don't stop me, Jakob, please. This is my last wish for the universe. I've suffered for so long in the confines of this world. I only wish to leave now.' I didn't know what to say. I was so shocked. But there was a part of me that was touched by the gentleness of his eyes, of his face, of his smiles. Then he said, 'You're a good man, Jakob. You care about universe, about all the creation, and I am sorry I manipulated you, that I didn't tell you. But I hope eventually you would understand. My body is of no use to anyone except as a decoration for a world that can't imagine its absence just because it exists. A world that doesn't care about my feelings. I willingly give myself to these poor creatures who don't have all these foolish rules of our world. So please, let me be, Jakob.' And he opened the door while my confused arm released his arm. I noticed that at the creaking sound of the hinges of the door the lionesses raised their heads. And when Mr. Willloughby gave me one last wave of goodbye, the lionesses all stood up. But they didn't move, while the shadow of Mr. Willoughby started towards the dried river. I was all in tears and didn't know what to do. Suddenly all my morals and philosophies became helpless onlookers on the sideline, while I was struggling in my confusion. But I had to leave. I couldn't run out there and grab him, not for fear of the lions, as you know, but somewhere in me kept showing me pictures of his smiles, his gentle face, his voice. So I started the engine, turned around, and drove like a mad rhino back to the road and hoped to dear life that I wouldn't hear the savagery that was about to happen."

The outside was now completely dark. People started milling in, many not speaking in English, all locals either finishing with some day tour or getting ready for the night tour. Among the conversations someone was already starting to talk about a missing old white man. The police was involved. But Jakob wasn't afraid of all this. He still thought about the old man's face, his eyes, his smiles; were they now ripped to pieces or ascended somewhere more majestic than this complicated world that made no sense to him anymore. His friend didn't say anything, but he did get him and himself the best Scotch in the house, while they both kept their silence.

Your Table

It had been a long day. He came earlier than usual to help cover the remainder of a friend's shift. His friend was going off to a hot date, it was said. The heat was a torture, and walking the two miles in this humidity had caused him to sweat through his shirt. But he was prepared. He had a spare one with him, even cleaner, very white, and by the time he put on his jacket that they were required to leave behind as it was restaurant property, he looked very cool in the air conditioned banquet hall. Customers were already filling up the place, and the AC helped lure even the die-hard ones as long as they had the money. Most of them were like him, a Chinese immigrant, but the rest were middle-class Filipinos who found the Chinese food a good break from their own beloved cuisine. But many of them came for the great service. And our waiter has a good following of loyal customers who sat at his section of tables all the time. They often would rather wait until a table was open than to sit at another section. He was always very attentive, very gregarious, very friendly, without being slavish. He was able to make something of a friendship with whoever sat at one of his tables. Sometimes his fellow waiters got jealous. But the manager loved him as his section drew a lot of customers. He would also share stories with the customers, his adventures crossing the South China Sea, the people he met and the wondrous stories he had heard and now repeated. He was a great story-teller, weaving plots to attentive eyes, but at the same time he always got them to order without interrupting their attention, and he knew when to leave them alone to their food. He could tell who was super hungry and who was there just to relax.

For all this he made decent money as a servant of the restaurant. There was a lot of tips left for him, and as the owner started to turn off the lights of the restaurant, our waiter was just about finished counting the tips he earned from his section of tables. He folded the bills and stuffed them into his pocket, also where a small knife was hanging. You never know this time of the night in Manilla. He said goodbye to his fellow waiters and the big boss, who, as always, gave him a big smile as he bid him good night. The big boss was born here but his father came from a town not too far from the waiter's in China. Before the waiter goes down the stairs, he turned and asked the boss, who was doing one last inspection, "How's Maria?" "She's doing great! Watching a little too much TV, but all right. When the new grandson comes to our world, she will be more active," he said, grinning, referring to his Filipina wife. "It's nice to have an established family already," the waiter added. The boss nodded and said, "I was lucky. I found Maria pretty early on."

"Right, you told me. But did you have someone in China already?" he asked.

"Maybe. You know how things were. They just chose a girl for you when you were a little kid and expect you two to get married by some ridiculously young age later," the cherubic boss said, grabbing his set of keys while the other waiters stepped out. As he locked the door with the waiter behind him, he added, "But I can't be bothered. Here was my home; I wasn't looking back. I sent money to my parents and that was to me enough for being the second son, you know?" The clanging sound of the keys as he turned the one needed interrupted the talk. He resumed talking to the waiter, still in their dialect, "I am glad I did that. Not looking back. I never even thought about the possibility of some girl waiting for me. If there was one, she wouldn't have known who I was until the wedding night." As they walked down together on the marble steps, the boss finished by saying, "Now I am the proud owner and manager of one of the best restaurants in town, and partly thanks to you!" He padded his favorite waiter on the back with a smile. But he noticed that the waiter was forcing out smiles, and he asked, "What's up?"

"No, nothing, sir. Just silly thoughts," said the waiter.

"We aren't working now. You can tell me, your friend!" said the man with the red smiling face.

"I should be going. I have an appointment," the waiter confessed.

"At this hour? Must be a lady," the boss said, then broke into a guffaw, padding the shorter man again, this time a little rougher. Then he said without waiting for a response, "Hey, this some hooker down the block in that brothel? That place is disgusting. Find yourself a cleaner place!"

The waiter was embarrassed and shook his head, "No, not like that. Just having a tea with this lady friend." He was looking at the ground the whole time. The boss dished out a bill from his wallet and said, "Take her for a drink, not some crazy useless tea. Get her all relaxed, brother!" The waiter shook his head violently and refused, "You're too nice, but this isn't necessary. I just wanted to talk to her."

The chubby man stuffed the bill in the waiter's right palm and said, "Whatever. But make sure she's pretty. Is she pretty?"

The waiter nodded and then asked, almost looking at the man in front of him, "If you had known that girl in China, if you had met her.... Would you still have married here?" At this point the chubby man puts his left hand on the shorter man's shoulder and said, "I would. But that's me. You are a more decent man than me. Maybe your heart tells you something different. I know which brothels are good, but I think you have never even thought about going inside one, am I right?"

It was true. He has only been thinking about making as much money as possible. And after he made a final bid of good night to the boss and started walking alone towards the cafe a few blocks down, he thought about his life. for a long time he had only thought about his family. At first it was just an adventure to be here. He was young and it wasn't hunger and a family that drove him here, it was adventure. He had heard so much about the adventures his ancestors had in worlds far away across oceans. But then one day, after the War was over, he went back to his village.

Why?

And there he let them find him a wife and then he married her.

Why?

And then he left them all to return here so that he could make money for them.

Really?

Yes, really. He found out when he left that a baby was coming. Even a greater motivation to work. He thought about his wife back home and the unborn child, and he made an effort to be even friendlier, more talkative, more attentive,so he could send the money back. But something had always been wrong. He didn't have much money saved for himself, and he always went home feeling empty, not just of money after most of it was sent back, but his soul, it felt empty. He was in an exciting city he had worked in then fought for and now work in again. And he had many friends, but there was a kind of love that the city hadn't been able to give him, unless you counted how it gave him money to send back to the people he supposedly loved. But somehow that conduit of money transfer never made him feeling any less empty.

He turned the corner, instinctively holding on his knife and releasing it only when the coast was clear. He had been attacked once, and he never let his guard down again. Imagine if something happened to him; what would happen to his family. Lately he was also saving up money to buy a ticket back soon to reunite with his family. See the child that is going to be born soon, within days. Back then there were no easy ways of instantly getting information. No phones, and telegrams were expensive. So when the child was born he wouldn't know until much later. That thought made him feel even more disconnected. He had risked a lot to stay connected, but there was something fragile about the connection; it was all just money and the letters he received from his wife weren't helping him with his loneliness at all. He had tried to write her a lot, especially in the beginning, but then more and more he wondered if she even understood what he was writing. He was being poetic, deep, his thoughts were wrenched out deep from his soul, but she never mentioned what he wrote or gave him feedback. So eventually she stopped expressing himself, just tell her over and over again that he was doing fine, just busy with work.

He stood in front of the cafe. There was a small glass pane on the door and through which he could see that the Filipina lady friend of his was already inside, sitting with a smile and waiting patiently without knowing that her gentleman friend was standing outside with his thoughts and feelings. In China you would never do this. A man and a woman didn't just meet somewhere and talked. And where he was raised, a village, not even two men would talk like the way they had been talking, about life, about love, about perspectives in life. She knew that he was married, but she still was paying attention to him. In China he would have been off-limits to any friendship with a woman, but here he felt he was being taken as a human being.

He reached in his pocket to take out the bill his boss had earlier stuffed in his hand, but it was the wrong pocket. It was the pocket with his tips of the day. There was a lot of money, and he thought it was the most he had made in one day so far. granted, it was a long day. Then he thought, at this rate, he could soon have enough money to run his own business. Not restaurant business, but something more interesting, like restaurant supplies, produce delivery, import export too. Suddenly that joy he had when he was just 15 crossing the South China Sea flared up. His life was really here.

No?

He could still be sending money back.

To buy off guilt, perhaps.

But what a life he would have. He looked through the glass pane again and saw the same patient smile on that beautiful, auburn face with big brown eyes. He remembered wanting to touch those hands of the same auburn hand. They were darker than his wife's peasant skin, but infinitely smoother. Then guilt came and he had to excuse himself that time. She didn't complain. She gave him space. Now he thought about his joy with her in the center. People in his village didn't seem to know much about joy. Granted, they had food shortage during the War and even after. But still, it wasn't just the War, but also these were simple people whose sole purpose in life is to survive and smiling was something of a lower priority. At least that was what he thought.

And with this thought, he released his hand from the wad of bills in the wrong pocket and opened the door with a big smile. Her reciprocating smile was even bigger.

Unattended Bouquet

The delivery man left with a big grin, the last thing she saw before closing the door behind her. Then she looked at the bouquet. It's huge, with lots of white lilies and pink and yellow dragon snappers and other flowers she didn't know the names of. But it did not escape her, as it was intentionally placed in the center, the extremely red and perfect rose the size of her wrist. To be fair, she's a petite woman, and her wrists are quite small. Still. The bouquet is tied with an equally red ribbon, to which a small envelop is attached.

She placed it on the coffee table and, without giving another thought, went into the kitchen, poured some water in the whistler, and started to heat it up. Then she sat on one of the bar stools and started waiting. The bouquet wasn't in front of her, but her mind was dominated by it. But more precisely, the sender. She hadn't opened the small, pink envelop, but she knew from whom it came. She interrupted her thoughts momentarily by brusquely getting up and reaching for her soothing tea from the pantry. Her fingers danced around the inside of the box of teabags and eventually lifted up one, even though all of them were the same kind. She nervously put the box of the same kind of teabags back in the pantry and sat back down. She noticed that the whistler already started to steam. At some point, the screaming would start. The whistler is transparent; she could see as well as hear the boiling, when it did happen. But for now, her thoughts were focused like sunlight through a magnifying glass onto the bouquet that was in the other room.

That delivery boy, what was he smiling about? He was happy for me?

Her thoughts were distracted. She folded her hands and rested her lips gently on them. Then she opened them and covered her face to massage her eyes and forehead a little. That felt good.

The screaming started, and her thoughts were interrupted again. She got up, surprisingly less abrupt this time, and grabbed a mug before lifting the screaming whistler from the heat. All that two seconds of finding a suitable mug and grabbing it the whole kitchen was screaming, it seemed. Her thoughts were temporarily scattered but by doing so she wasn't so bothered by the screaming of the whistler.

Why today? What have I done?

She poured some of the boiling water into the mug, placed the whistler back on the stove, turned it off, and then poured out the mug of water that had warmed up the mug. Then she looked around for a second because she didn't know where she had put the tea bag her little, thin fingers had found a few minutes ago. Once found, the teabag was dumped into the hot, empty mug, and hot water was poured in to release the soothing essence. She set her tea timer to 3 minutes.

And there, she sat on the same bar stool, looking at the tea bag, as if she could see the molecules of soothing factors released. Her mind wandered, as she had anticipated, which was why she had a timer on, because her mind always wandered, especially with something as stressful as a bouquet of flowers with a big red rose the size of her wrist in the center.

among the wild
in the center a red heart
throbs for our freedom

Bad haiku. "Our" is two syllables. That was the text message she got that morning that woke up up. She has had rather restless sleeps, and a little chime from her cell phone could wake her up. "Among the wild", yes, the green leaves, the white lilies, the rest of the vegetation in the bouquet. "A red heart", mine? No. Ours? That's the idea, no? "Our freedom", of course. We aren't free now. But that's a misconception.

Then the timer beeps, shyly but persistently. She got a little annoyed at the wake-up call, and rudely turns off the timer. She steeped the teabag a little more in the mug of yellow liquid and put it on the little plate on which the mug was sitting. Honey? No, no honey. She was called "honey" just the previous day by the very sender. She sipped her chamomile and returned to her thought.

By the time she had finished, her heart was actually racing even faster. She was nervous. She decided that there would be no freedom. She was normal, she decided. She regretted giving the wrong impression to the sender, to the crazy woman who had fallen in love with her. She regretted leading her on.

I don't know why I allowed myself to be crazy.

Freedom was irrelevant. She was just lonely. She was probably desperate, that was why she flirted with that woman, to let her kiss her in the rain last week, let her think there was something, and now she probably thought her resistance was just fear of society.

No way; I am not a freak like her.

She drank the rest of the still warm yellow tea, put the used teabag back in the mug, and got up. She walked back to the living room with murderous hands. She picked up the bouquet and brought it to its place of execution: in front of the garbage pail.

You won't hear from me again.

Who's "you", she suddenly had the thought. She then noticed the smell of the lilies, and subtly, the smell of that red rose. Was it in her mind? She looked at the rose. And with tearful eyes she threw the bouquet in the garbage pail and closed the lid.