Note: I hope you would read this with open mind, and do not judge. There is no offense was meant in my words. Forgive my English, still in learning progress.
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That dinner night was ten out of ten. The beefsteak and creamy spaghetti were exactly the same to what I had tasted during my study abroad. Luxuriously glorious chamber in a vaguely romantic atmosphere, she was right to choose that place for our first met.
The lady sitting opposite me was still enjoying her appetizer, meanwhile my look was attached to her through a sneaky way so as not to be busted. She was beautiful. To be honest. But an ordinary glory. Her beauty was the harmony of all the most ordinary senses I had ever seen. Those tapered eyelids with short thin eyelashes, the dove-esque icy pupils excitingly blinked towards me. Her nose was alike to Asian’, but a bit straighter and upturned nose-top. Everytime she sipped wine, her two so so pinky-peach petals quivered quietly, seemed like she didn’t like that acerbic flavour of champagne. And even her complexion, it was the typically Mongoloid slight yellow tone.
“How intensely you stare, you would never find a single thing. Just simply nothing’s special.” Smacking her lips, she gave me a tedious glance then shrugged.
“I think you are beautiful.” She did not react as she had heard of it not for the first time, that people flattered her frame.
“Close your eyes, you won’t be able to imagine my face eventually,” Expressing a smirk, her mouth secretly frowned as if something bitter recently touched her lips. “Will you? A try?”
“You must be kidding. Okay I’ll give it a try.” I leaned backwards the chair covered by a soft blance draft, capturing all of her lines in a couple of seconds before lowering my eyelids.
The space felt like being sunk in a still and caliginous mist, which might even get darker if there was none of the flickering candles. And she was gone somewhere, in my feeling. I didn’t see her, at least in my illusion. She was right. I couldn’t recollect any of the creations which had already been carved on her, although 15 minutes of mine passed by just for my watching her. My front woman turned into a dimming silhouette in the gloom of the eyes closed, blurry and spreading all over the corners of the chamber. No matter how focused I was, my mind stopped functioning after processing her cloak colour or the faded-sunshine chestnut hair. I exhaled.
“That’s strange…” I grinned scowling my eyes. Looking at her again, obviously she was not that faint? Even so if my eyes closed for once more, everything would harmonize into beginningless ending and obscurity.
“See? I’ve told you,” She cut the steak seasoned with pepper and fennel impassibly. “No one ever be able to remember. Including me.” Her voice was stable, showing no mercy for the predestined obliteration that was set for her.
“How about some lemonade?” Suddenly asking while wondering myself a reason.
“Yes, thank you. I don’t match with champagne.” Mademoiselle was not surprised, which was a huge contrary to the wonderment on my face. “My longings are all shown up, right? Everybody said so.” She giggled.
Only from that moment did I notice the expressions on that ordinarily gorgeous description were a whole extra-ordinary. I had neither ever seen, nor been able, to indicate such crystal clear sentiments. Any eyes squint, any eyebrows frown or any nose rugosity, was meant to display an emotional text of her. I reached the cream sauce to sprinkle on that lady’s spaghetti dish away from me about 35 centimeters, because she has just bit those peachy lips.
“Tch, you are wondering how can I survive with those visible emotions?” She stirred the iced lemonade glass after adding half of milled salt table spoon.
“How, how do you know?” I was startled. She widened her vision straightforward my eyes, it was immense and soothingly embraced her lowering eyelashes.
“Just my experience. Tch, how do we call it? It was a bit inconvenient before, but now I think it’s fine. I needn’t talk too much about my longings, and learnt to adapt it with a positive view. Dare I to hate my bosses? Hahaha…!” Her chuckles sounded over the corners of the room. All of a sudden, she fell into a brief contemplation. “But my love life is a whole boredom. They just need to look at my face and figure out if I love them or not, need them or hate them. There is nothing challenging their subjugating will?!” She sipped some lemonade, her face muscles relaxed within a satisfaction. “How about you?”
“Me?” Being asked, my confusion got me silent. “What about me?”
“A family, a house, cars. Anything else you want?” She curled the pasta around the fork, slowly putting it inside those small rosy petals.
“This… kinda freak,” I hesitated. Did the upper spirits endow her with the absolute empathy, which is used to make it up for her permanent effacement?
“I didn’t mean to scare you. Just, it is written on your face. Up here,” She pointed at her forehead. “So is Mr. Next Table.”
“Is that so?” I was answered by her delicate nod. “That’s all. I would prefer an ordinary life.” Then I pouched a slight amount of red wine though its flavor had been faded more or less as the cork had been plucked out.
We kept on conversing until the restaurant became desolate. The waiter started to take out the tips laid inside the receipts that the costumers had handed back. I took her to my wheels. The night scenery were alike as workaday times, but inside the car it smelled faintly the mixture of lightly-bitter liquor and the perfume attaching on her body, fortuitously making the air much easier to breathe. Front of us, the roads stretched and hiddenly appeared under the flickering street lights. The death of daylight collapsed on the pavement’s shadows, moonshine hanging on the sky poured out its glittering silver waterfall down many of the tall trees’ branches, which obfuscated and saddened the spectacle. Getting her elbow hooked on the car glass, her stare lengthened to the other side of the road, on which there was no one but my old machine. I understood her demand.
“Let’s head to my home?” She blushed, trembling cilia concealed those fermenting pupils. I made a turn at the corner, rotting dry leaves on the ground rustled, and being blown up in the middle of the air, at the end getting spiraled by the time I surprisingly sped up.
…
The wooden bed caught us right after I had pushed the door. No spare time for light on, she fell into my lap. Gloomy, murky. Our lips grabbed each other vehemently but to be honest, I could not see anything other than her sizzling shape. She seemed to lose her footing in the opaque land belonging to the earth and céu, and repeatedly, dropped in bubbles down to an unknown abyss before vanishing away totally. Even though, her complexion was still sticking on mine. I stopped teasing those petals, groping for the bed-lamp besides. The yellow-lime glow blazed around, shone up the physique under my body. That splendidly humble beauty and body heat pulled me back to the reality, a holding-on-her-tightly self. Her ability of empathy and genial emotional indications brought to me an igniting lovemaking burning all my previous experiences to ashes. Sensitive points, extreme pleasures, slow touches, resonated together without any of dropping notes. The plump moisture feeling of having her in my hands got me delighted, within the illusion of successful dispossession on the night mistress for whom around-the-world guys were looking. When our strength eventually exhausted, I fell asleep on her a-bit-bony shoulder. The unidentified floating phantom lured me into its far-flung dreamland, with her lost into the permanently wandering world. No matter how her warmth caressed my nose-top could I not reminisce the countenance shining brightly at midnight, that puzzling discomfort made me awake at around 4 AM. Dawn had just emerged weakly, gleaming lamp light dimmed up a few inches on her sheening skin because of sweat, was lying next to me. A chill ran over me joyfully as the air-conditioner breezed, just a moment before my recognition about our done intercourse in the scorching heat of summer beginning. I contemplated the sleeping face nearby, silky flaccid flesh sometimes reflected the pale yellow from the bed-lamp. Her figure stirred moving closely to me. With her on my side, I thought about everything had happened in a quick space of time, not over 12 hours yet, just in one night. First met, then first sleep. Her frame was the same, ordinary splendor was in her deep slumber. Her two nose’s sides breathed in and out in a gentle way. I sat up quietly, opened the window next to my single couch, leaned my back viewing her bedtime. Lighting up my cigarette quickly from the creasy paper box, I inhaled so strong that my chest felt like crackling, then exhaled at a leisure pace. Hovering line of smoke fogged my eyesight, once again erasing her dozing shadow. I rubbed that eye-spicy fog to seek for the fragrant woman who was closing her eyes peacefully on my bed, while trying to reach my memory about her expressions last night. How regretful, I could only see a vague scene, several human-shaped light and dark tones crossed over each other, wriggled and aroused on the greyscale background. Had I gone crazy? I wanted to marry her, maybe? Something smoldered like the ash in consequence of the firing sex game, inflamed the whole me with the desire to get high with her one more time. But nothing happened later, my body parts strained out, my legs froze for no reason or was my back side glued to the chair just to be able to put her frame into the jail of my eyes? Neither did I know, nor care about what were my longing. From this to another cigarette, sunlight had already risen over the skyscrapers, brightened the house space in the sparkle dust. She woke up between the messy blankets, icy eyes blinked looking at the half-nude guy who was busy with carving his leaden stare at every inch on her complexion. I pressed down the halfway cigar on its ashtray fulled of halfway ones, sighing out a “phew” that smoke was sneaking inside my inner systems.
“Will you marry me?”
I got espoused with her, a person whom I might never be able to remember her face for my entire life. When she came to pick me up or in contrary after our shifts, I even hardly distinguished her amongst the people row in and out if I was just finding her from behind. She knew that, and impassible with that. I, her parents, our kids, everyone in general, nobody had the talent to memorized my wife’s description, despite the fact that I had spent most of our late nights after wonderful magnetic performances, trying desperately to take shot of a bit of her into my mind. It resulted in uselessness. Memoria about her was in bubbles covered by colorful but blended neons without any clear borders. Her photo frame lying on the bed’s above was not her either. Since the day she had left, it did not matter how many times I had checked that picture, I still did not realize the resemblance between my wife and it, not even a blurry detail. Albeit I was only keeping her things through the tint of her pupils, her lips, and her flesh. But I knew for sure none of cameras could ever shoot her real appearance. On that blance shiny day, when I voiced up my faithful vows, her tears dropped.
“Let us be in love, at least 10 years.”
To rethink, more than the glee spilling out of her canthus in the moment my lips laid on hers, I had no attention that my bride had already anticipated herself would break the vows. She died in the night before our 10th wedding anniversary sharply. The autumn slumber took her to the some endless lands, or the remote empty world like the way they could not resist but must forget about her. When did she love me? Until when would her soul stop loving me? If she had loved me for 10 years enough, how would she have been? Had I loved her a bit more for 10 years, how things would have become? Those questions were buried along with her at the mound we left her coffin. Her photo frame for people to come and say their condolences was fake, everyone immediately knew my wife was not that energetic as they looked at it. But how did she look like in details, not out of expectation, their larynx remained silence.
I had embraced her bubble portrait for a long time that faded things kept fading. The color lines melted themselves, turned to liquid, dissolved into each other which created a true imaginary masterpiece, just she was not involved in. Night next to day and day next to night, the coach on the side of the window was still under pressure because of my weight, was making search of her trivial remnants on the rugose draft, killing time with well-paid money and familiar cigarettes honey. Till that moment came, like it was supposed to be that moment I had to wait, to be allowed to see her anew – in the shapes of our children being at the twentieth age, for my wife was 25 when I proposed to her. For the first time after 18 years of her passing, I could see her so crystal clear. The normal tampered eyelids, upturned Asian nose, peachy lips mold and Mongoloid skin tone, each of the kids inherited from some symbols of their mother – the ordinary look but ineradicable pulchritude. Up until I realized it, up until I was conscious enough to solve that puzzle, I was able to reunite with her in her prime time when her splendor was ever that brilliant.
She was still 25 of the old day, that night, in my eyes.
Thanks for reading!