She stares at the man who loves her, his sunken eyes look to her like the sun in its glory, his scars like a shrunken flower petal kept between the pages of a book and put away for years, alive in it’s own right when the rest of it is dead and gone; a memory always looked after. When he stares back at her, she knows she will never have him.
She rests on the back of the man who loves her, speechless they stare into blank space each understanding unspoken words and lost in the nuance that theirs would never be a dream come true.
Words come out as grunts when he plants a kiss on her cheek and as moans when he bites into her neck slowly but consistently and then as pleas when she feels the wetness in her pants and the fear that she would soon lose what resistance she put up grips her as she tearfully jerks his hands off her hips and sadly announces her plan to take a leave. His pleas beat drums in her ears. Deaf to his words, she walks away, satisfied she knows now his love language.
Time, she tells the other. Time and yours is touch.
It was not the day that you took the bus to your house holding proudly the new chairs you had bought for your new office. It was not that same day, in that bus when you received the phone call that whispered news of your mother’s death into your ears. It was not that day, when upon hearing the news you turned to the window and stared into a bright sky and wondered why life was so cruel, it was not after your co-commuters symphatised with you when you had reached your stop. It was not on that day.
The man once told the lady that he loved her, and his confession caused the ignition of the love she eventually had for him. With him, the world stood still. A love that could lead to a union, maybe a child or three. So she lived for him, putting away most that would make her her and wearing the cloak of maturity, the shoes of a married woman to-be.
You are on your way home where you’ll be spending the Christmas holiday. Your friend, who you paid a visit, sees you off to the park and waves goodbye as he watches the bus leave. You adjust properly on the seat where you are cushioned between a very fat woman who’s wearing cheap, tight bracelets and two other people; a young man and an elderly woman. The bus is in motion and the elderly woman who sits on your right starts to sing.
The fear that she faces is not one she can explain with mere words. It’s an indescribable mix of loyalty and betrayal. Desultory voices scream in her head and beg her to free them. The voices transform to shapes as in human form. To children. To a child.
Free us, free us, freedom we want.
Shut up, you incubus! You schlumpy bunch of grasshoppers! Shuuut uuup!!