Extraordinarily Ordinary

“She’s so high, high above me,” he sings along with the radio as he swings about the bakery, pulling out a cake from one oven and placing it on the countertop, only to twirl around and pull out a cookie tray from another and slide the treats into the glass case at the front of the shop. I lean against the wall behind the cash register, watching him move about with feline agility. Men shouldn’t be that graceful; if they were, women would be in danger of mass hypnosis.

Taking a bowl of frosting out of the fridge, he starts layering it onto the cake, all the while looking up at me every five seconds, as if making sure that I’m still here. The Saturday morning light hits the ground before me, and I look down at the light pool to avoid his obsessive glances.

He sings some more. “First class and fancy free, she’s high society, she’s got the best of everything.” Hm, I do believe he’s trying to say something.

The rest of the song goes on, but he’s stopped singing. I look back up and we stare at each other. I can hear the lyrics in the background:

“What could a guy like me ever really offer?
She’s perfect as she can be, why should I even bother?”

He smiles. I know what he’s thinking. You’re so great, so beautiful, and so intelligent. I open my mouth to argue, but he’s on me in a second. Shaking his head, he puts a frosting-covered finger on my lips. Don’t deny it. Because I’ll shove this cake down your throat if you do.

The frosting on my lips begins to melt. But licking his finger would not be proper. Anyone could walk by and see us. My heart kicks up the tempo.

He moves his finger. I’m relieved. I think.

Wait, he’s leaning in. My heart reaches a fevered pace.

He’s a centimeter away now. Is he…? Will he…?

“Can you get the ten inch silver engraved bowl from the closet?”

Shocked by the derailment of the situation, I numbly nod and head up the stairs near the kitchen, but not before I see him open the doors under the sink to grab some hand soap, next to which lies a rusty crowbar. Why is there a crowbar under the sink?

But I don’t dwell on things concerning him. I’ve learned long ago not to question him too much because after a while, it will cease to make logical sense.

Besides, I’ll get paranoid if I think about it too much; heavy metal object, sending me to a small, enclosed space… Yes. Don’t think about it.

I make my way to the closet on the second floor, licking the frosting off my lips. I’m not sure if I’m disappointed or relieved that he didn’t do anything.

The door to his room at the end of the hallway is ajar, but I’ve been there enough times to know what was inside: a giant mess with a bed somewhere under all the confusion. The closet, on the other hand, is new to me. I walk down the hall to the closet door and nudge it open.

The first thing that greets me is a cloud of dust. Choking on it, I brush it away and move further inside, pulling on a chain connected to a dusty light bulb on the ceiling as I walk by. The light oscillates back and forth, illuminating piles of old junk that lay about. Rubbermaid boxes filled with life’s crumbs are heaped to one side.

A silver bowl, he said. Can’t be that hard to find amongst all this clutter. Honestly.

I start ruffling through the piles. I find a photo album and pause to flip through it. He’ll never know.

There are his parents, posing in front of this bakery; his beautiful mother, half Japanese, half Irish with black hair and Damian’s green eyes. His father, a hearty Grecian with hair the color of beach sand and wearing those sunglasses that every tourist has.

There are the grandparents, one photo of his mother’s parents and one of his father’s. Of course, everyone on his father’s side is Greek. But on his mother’s side, his Japanese grandmother and Irish grandfather stand together, as happy now as they were on their wedding day. There’s a story that goes behind the photo, but he hasn’t talked about it yet.

There’s his uncle who owns the bakery, the one who is teaching him everything he knows, although Damian is the one who practically runs the place now. He’s also the uncle who taught him Greek. In the photo he’s standing in front of the acropolis, a child Damian grinning beside him.

Memories of my own youth spent with my parents in Greece fill my head.

The sound of a door slowly creaking shut makes me whirl around. I make a feeble attempt to pull out of my daydream and reach the door, but it’s too late. The door closes just as I grasp the doorknob. The closet suddenly becomes four walls. Shaking out images from all the horror films I’ve seen recently (Why does he love those films so?), I pull on the knob.

It doesn’t move.

I pull again.

And again.

Bloody hell.

I panic for a moment before taking a deep breath, then I start coughing again. Blasted dust.

A heavy knock on the door makes me jump.

“Door jammed?”

“Ah, yes.”

“Hold on.”

I was perplexed, then remembered the crowbar under the sink. Good, I’m saved. I think.

A sliver of light, and then his silly grin.

“Did you find the bowl?”

I shake my head. Images of blonde, big-chested women screaming in fear as a silhouette with a crowbar come unbidden into my mind. Bugger it, I’m becoming just as illogical as he is.

“Well, the store doesn’t open for another hour.”

What? He couldn’t possibly…

He moves closer. I squeak. The mouse is cornered. The cat is moving in.

In a corner of the closet, I see the silver bowl, hidden behind an old canvas.

Cheeky bastard. But I suppose this makes up for not kissing me earlier.

Vanilla and Smoke

I stood there, staring at the old wooden door. My eyes traced the lines and bevels forming simple patterns carved into the weathered mahogany that had been recently sanded and oiled. The streetlamp reflected off the wood and threw shadows into the carved designs. I placed my fingers on the wood and stroked it, reveling in the smoothness under my skin. I pulled out an old key from my pocket. Slipping it inside the keyhole, I slowly turned it, hearing a very audible click.

I paused and looked around.

Then I reached for the newly polished brass doorknob. With my hand poised over it, I hesitated. What am I doing here?

Taking a deep breath, I finally grasped the knob and twisted it tentatively. I nudged the door open and stepped over the threshold, the hinges creaking softly as if to whisper, “Shh, you shouldn’t be here.” I took my time without meaning to, looking at the sides of the door frame and observing that they too had been oiled. The fragrance of lemon fresh Pine-Sol wafted around me, and I closed my eyes. In between the molecules of chemical clean, I could sniff out his scent.

 

***

 

He worked in a bakery, of all places. Apprenticing there, in fact. He didn’t seem the type; with his lean, muscular physique, I had pegged him for a mechanic or a construction worker. With his soot-covered shirt and faded blue jeans, he looked nothing like the jolly red-nosed bakers that danced in my mind with their German accents, plaid lederhosen, and chocolate smeared over their cheeks.

When I had accidentally run into him on my way home from work the other night, I thought I had bought it. He had an imposing stature and dark hair pulled back in a queue that looked a bit worn at the ends. Leaning against the wall with his hip jutting out, he looked like a street ruffian, ready to rob me and leave me bleeding in the alley.

Well, bollocks, I thought. I never should have gone down this blasted side street. Why couldn’t I have gone to the centre street like I usually do?

But instead of mugging me, he offered me half of his cookie.

“It’s not dangerous,” he said with a friendly grin. He pointed to the sign above his head. ‘Sweet Delights’, it read.

“Best treats this side of the Atlantic,” he added.

Against my better judgment, I took the cookie. I sniffed it first, and a wave of aromas came crashing into me. Smoky almond, walnut, and a hint of vanilla. I couldn’t help myself. I shoved it into my mouth rather ungracefully. Moist and chewy, it melted in my mouth like the three tons of butter that probably went into making it.

I almost moaned. I’ve heard mention of a ‘foodgasm’. I thought it was a joke, but I fully understand now.

“Hungry, eh?”

I nodded. I hadn’t had supper yet and it was already 8 o’clock.

He held up his hand in a ‘wait-for-me’ gesture and went inside the bakery. I suppose I could have left then, could have walked away and he wouldn’t have known until he came out again. But I waited. Captivated by a stranger with a cookie. An absolutely scrumptious cookie.

He returned a bit later holding his leather jacket, and after he locked the door, we walked to the nearest restaurant. It was so spontaneous, so completely random that I didn’t really know what I was doing. I was like a puppet on strings, surrendering to the moment and just doing with no thinking.

It felt really, really good.

While eating dinner, he commented on the way I held my knife and fork. I held my utensils continental style, which, apparently, was very odd to him. The conversation meandered from there. We talked about everything, from music to religion to pop culture to history. It was a strange mishmash of things, very much like the man who sat before me.

After dinner we walked back to the bakery. It was now closed, the only illumination coming from the streetlamp a few metres away. The doorway to the bakery was about three steps from the edge of the light, just dark enough to look suspicious. I looked up at the sign above the door and was grateful for deciding to take an alley tonight instead of walking around to the main street.

I felt myself being subtly nudged towards the door. It was locked, so I had no idea why he was—

The wood against my back and the pressure of his lips answered my question. But we shouldn’t be doing this! It’s not proper! Oh, his hand is on my cheek. Oh. Oh my. His lips are quite…

Then he pulled away. Pulling a key out of his back pocket, he handed it to me. I stared at it for a few moments before putting it in my purse. Leaning his forehead against mine, he stared at me with his green eyes, an unspoken invitation for the future.

Nothing was said. Nothing needed to be.

A sharp pain drew my attention from his eyes to my hand. A splinter. I stared at it for a few moments, then looked at the door behind me. He noticed too. Taking my hand, he carefully pulled the splinter out of my finger, and kissed it.

“I’ll sand and oil the door as soon as I can,” he assured me.

He walked me home. I don’t know why I trusted him so much. There’s something so instinctual about it. But now he knows where I live. Will it be alright? He wouldn’t hurt me, would he?

Of course not. He gave me a cookie.

It was so childish, my trust, so naïve.

And yet…

As he leaned in to kiss me goodnight, I could smell the entire bakery on his skin. A plethora of ingredients: flour and butter, sugar, almonds, vanilla, and smoke from the oven. All combined to form a unique scent that I know only as him.

 

***

 

Now he stood leaning against the wall, watching me enter like a wolf observing a rabbit coming out of its burrow. He grinned, his eyes reflecting the light from the streetlamp outside the window. And maybe some of the moonlight too.

“Hi Leila,” he said in a hushed tone. “Glad you could make it.”

Inside the bakery, cakes and other delectable treats sat behind a glass-walled prison, calling out for bail money so they could spend the rest of their brief lives in the arms of a sweet lover before being devoured voraciously.

I smiled and nodded at him. Walking into the bakery, I inhaled his scent.

Down to Earth

   
    I flew down the stairs to the ground, landing
lightly on my ankle-high boots. My navy blue skirt and white blouse
fluttered in the whirlwind I created as I rushed to the bus stop to
catch a bus that was never on schedule. The early morning sun launched
an attack on my sleep-deprived eyes. A session of essay-grading once
again took far too long.
        It was starting out to be a
rather trying day: I had already spilled coffee on one outfit and had
to change, I couldn’t find my keys for twenty minutes, and then after I
had left my apartment I realized that my wallet was still on the
nightstand in my room. Blast it all, I’m usually not this
scatter-brained. One more diversion and I would definitely miss the bus.
        “Hey.” Flour-dusted hair and a wide grin.
        I don’t have time for his
cheekiness. I swept past him, but not before reaching out to brush some
of the flour out of his hair. Out of the corner of my eye, the bakery
that exists in the building next door had its door wide open.
        He grabbed my hand. “You’re not even gonna say goodbye?”
        I pulled my hand back. “Goodbye.”
        I ran away to the bus stop.

        At the end of a long day at the
university, I long for only one thing: the comfort of my room. Filled
with artifacts from my parents, warm woolen mittens for cold winter
nights, and books full of photos of the Mediterranean, my room is a
haven for me when the day is done. I can rest here, I can unwind. I can
finally hear myself clearly.
        I reached the stairs that led to
the second floor of my apartment complex. Plain wooden stairs, painted
a vague shade of lavender, creaked with every step I took. I trudged
upwards, towards peace of mind.
        “Hey.”
        It’s been a week. Hasn’t he
gotten bored yet? Surely there are other women he can see, other ladies
he can talk to. Why me? I’m a researcher at the local university who
grades papers on the side just so I can keep up with my bills. I hardly
ever talk to him; in fact, I don’t even have his phone number, or know
where he lives. All I know is that he works in the bakery.
        Regardless of my suspicions, I
turned to look down at him. As our eyes met, the sounds in my mind
became blurred, a white noise blanket covering my ears. Reason,
instinct, thought, self, all was obscured.
        Then all I heard was green. A green meadow.
        I took a step downwards. Then
another. And another and another. Until I was at his feet. I looked up
at him and sighed.
        “Hello,” I finally replied.

        We sat on the bottom steps after
dinner, reluctant to part company. He griped about the waiter who
snubbed us while I listened quietly to his oddly amusing rant. Strange
how I find him fascinating at night, when he seems truly alive. Even
after a long day at work, he still manages to have enough energy to
entertain me as well. Every time I see him, he brightens up and smiles,
a white hot sun coalescing into a young man. And always, whenever he is
near, the white noise flows over me and I hear nothing for a few
breathless moments. Then there is nothing but a green meadow.
        Peace.
        Serenity.
        Quiet.
        A warm, comfortable silence that
doesn’t echo, doesn’t sound hollow. It cushions my mind and wraps me up
in a soft blanket, muffling the outside world. I can still hear
everything, but it doesn’t bother me nearly as much.
At the university, the voices of the students, the professors, the
janitors, the machines, the buildings themselves, all come together in
my head, a giant cacophony of sounds that disharmonizes my mind and
throws me off kilter. The students whine and moan about their grades,
the professors prattle on about their research, and the sounds of the
campus as a whole overwhelm me.
        It’s not as if I dislike the
school, or its patrons, but sometimes it all gets to be too much. I
need some tranquility in my day, which is why I always rush home in the
evening to disappear into my room and uncoil the riffs. To listen to my
own music, or sometimes just reveling in the sound of cold silence.
        Somehow, he brings a different
kind of silence to my life. Even when he goes on and on about the most
inane topics, he still has a quiet aura around him that I find
absolutely irresistible. For once, I’ve met someone who doesn’t have
thirty million sound waves blasting from his soul. He is simple and
clean. Despite my first impressions, and despite the fact that he seems
quite bipolar at times, I like his presence.
        Suddenly the conversation rode off on a tangent. As usual.
        “Why do you always rush to the bus stop if it’s never on time?”
        I shrugged. “I wouldn’t want to miss one, now would I?”
        “I guess not.”
        We sat quietly for a while.
        “Couldn’t you, you know, saunter to the bus stop instead?”
        I smiled inwardly. I love his
choice of words. But I thought about his suggestion for a while. Why
not? Was there any real reason for me to rush to a bus stop when the
bus never followed the schedule?
        “Yes, I suppose I could,” I replied.
        “Excellent,” he said mysteriously.

        Early morning once more. Another
cup of coffee, another mad dash to the bus stop to catch a bus that is
never punctual. On my way out of the apartment, I saw him walking
casually out of the bakery and towards the stairs.
        Our eyes met. There was no escape.
        He smiled invitingly, holding a
plate of cookies in one hand like bait on a fishing string. He looked
up at me with his green, cat-like eyes staring straight through me, as
if he could read the thoughts across my brain.
        At the foot of the stairs, he held his hand out to me.

Borderline

            I stared at the invisible boundary line. The border between here and there, so easily passed through and yet it took me forever to get there. To get to this point where I stand now, hesitant and anxious all at once, looking into this room. It was like another world filled with vintage furniture and antique contraptions.

The doorway was a portal to her.

The rest of the apartment was like her image; clean, crisp, modern. Monochromatic schemes with glass, metal bars, and black cushions defined her furniture; very Le Corbusier. The carpet was a nondescript beige, the walls were colored a bit on the blue side of off-white. Modernist paintings were in perfectly composed arrangements on the walls, and the few plants that existed were placed in the corners, as if to hide the fact that there was anything organic in here. Two words came to mind: immaculate and orderly.

And yet now as I stare at her bedroom, I can’t believe that she’s the same person who decorated the rest of the place. No wonder she always kept this door closed. Heaven forbid that anyone ever find out that she’s not always Miss Perfect Neatness.

In front of me, I gazed at a wall of forest green. Desert sands loomed in my peripheral vision, reaching to a ceiling covered in posters of ruins and ancient artifacts. She once told me that she grew up following her parents to archeological digs all around the Mediterranean.

I peered inside a little more, careful not to step into the room just yet; the barrier still seemed to be intact, at least in my mind. The wall closest to the door had a pair of sliding closet doors, covered in mismatched fragments of mirrors, a mosaic of reflection.

Two large oak bookcases stood proudly before me. They were filled with knickknacks from all over the world, textbooks so heavy you could kill someone with them, and piles of papers, red markings on them all. The papers spilled out to the floor, stacks of essays and file folders heaped up against the wall. There was a sense of organized chaos in the room, as if there was too much stuff and not enough time to arrange it all properly.

The headboard of her bed was pushed up against the center of the left wall, a nightstand to the left and a desk to the right. There was a simple black HP laptop sitting on her desk, but it was mostly hidden by the books and papers that were strewn about. Empty coffee cups were stacked on one corner of the desk. I guess she’s spent a lot of late nights grading essays.

In my mind’s eye, I saw her hunched over her desk, a coffee cup in one hand, a ball-point pen in the other. Her glasses, which I’ve only seen her wearing while reading a newspaper, falling down the bridge of her nose as she reads the essays of her students. Scribbling gracefully in red ink on the papers, she would reach back and rub the kinks out of her neck. Tendrils of chocolate hair falling out of that stupid bun of hers, her skirt hiking up her thighs as she fidgets in her seat, crossing her legs and then un-crossing them. The top three buttons of her blouse unbuttoned, her silver pendent sparkling against her skin that smells like flowers and espresso. I want to touch her, inhale her scent. Forget about grading those papers, I would say. Come play with me.

Just as the image was about to bowl me over, my nose was filled with the scent of gardenias. I saw the pale yellow bottle of lotion on her nightstand and smiled lopsidedly. Every time I managed to get close to her, she smelled like that. I almost wanted to steal the bottle for myself, but that would be just weird. And I think she’d notice if her lotion was gone. Next to the bottle, a small ceramic bowl was filled with water and gardenia petals.

I heard soft footsteps behind me. I turned my head and smelled the coffee before I saw it.

“I’m sorry, I know it’s a mess. I didn’t think you’d arrive so quickly,” she mumbled.

She was carrying two cups filled with hot coffee. The scent mixed with the gardenias, creating a new, unique fragrance that was all her. She handed me my cup, black as usual, and slipped past me into the room, placing her coffee, which I knew had three teaspoons of brown sugar and a quarter cup of non-dairy creamer, on the desk, clearing away papers to make space for the blue and white checkered mug. She stood out against all that clutter, her perfect hair in that tight bun, her conservative pinstripe skirt, and her white blouse buttoned up as high as it could go. She sat at the foot of the bed, smoothing her skirt underneath her, and looked up at me, trying to look blank and failing miserably. She had asked me to help her organize her room. But I know what she really wants. Doesn’t she know that I can practically read her thoughts now? It’s been eight months now, hasn’t it?

But instead of pouncing right then and there, I leaned against the door frame, trying to maintain a relaxed stance, put her off guard. I like to play with my food first. I pointed out a scroll hanging above her bed.

“What’s that say?”

            “Σ’αγαπώ,” she said.

            She blushed suddenly. She forgot that I know Greek as well. I’m such a bastard.

            “Me too,” I said as I grinned wolfishly at her. She shook her head disapprovingly and sighed, but I could see the amusement in her eyes. And was that a glimmer of something else, maybe?

            Leila’s practically invited you in. Now’s the time to make the move, Damian. Time to make her match her surroundings. Right now dude, right now!

            I stepped over the threshold.

Soundtrack

Sleek and silver, it sits in my hand. Inert, it takes a headphone jack into one end and a USB cable into the other. I open its backside, slide the battery inside, and close it. I press the power/play button and the display screen lights my skin with an aquamarine glow as it turns on. With a click and a drag from my mouse, the computer pumps in data encoded in ones and zeroes. When it has finished the transfer, I disconnect the cable, put the headphones into my ears and hit the play button.

E-spidi is flawed. It can’t take a hit; barely a tap on its backside will shut it off. The battery life is about 8 hours, if I’m lucky. A mere 256 megabytes is the limit, only forty-five songs or so. But as the data translates into music and flows into my ears and into my mind, I forgive my player for its faults.

The name of the song appears on the display, but that’s not important. It is the lyrics that enter my head, the rhythm that moves my body. A wide range of music encapsulated in a single mechanism, simplicity incarnate.

 

My collection is strange, but I like to call it eclectic. Japanese pop songs snuggle up with American classic rock, Shakira sings beside Faye Wong, while Joe Satriani’s electric guitar and Aimee Mann’s sultry voice battle for superiority. The mix of meaning, the variety of tunes, it all reflects the elaborate tapestry that is my mind.

Jason, were you feeling what I was as you sang, “I’m just a singer, you’re the world,” as we stared up at the full moon in awe? Do you know what I thought, Aimee, when you said “I’d better take the keys and drive forever”? “Uruoshite hoshii kono atsui karada[1],” your feelings are so strong, Every Little Thing, that I understand completely. Train, will you save me while I save the day? And will the sun really come, and will it really be alright, John, Paul, George, and Ringo? Oh Roberta, they’re killing me softly with their songs.

Language, or even words for that matter, becomes a blur as E-spidi continues to play. I can feel the emotion through the melody to something more primal, something that can’t be described with words alone. I forget that all this is being channeled through a small instrument, a device no bigger than my hand.

And yet E-spidi is so much more than just a bunch of electronic gadgetry wired together. The whole far outweighs the sum of its parts; it brings together a discombobulated state of mind and turns it into the soundtrack of my life. Sure, it’s not the most accurate album and it’s overly romanticized; it’s in Chinese, Japanese, Spanish, English, and sometimes there are no words at all. But what do I care? It’s close enough, isn’t it? No one ever said the mind is easy to understand; it doesn’t have to be uniform, or even consistent.

 

My friends wonder why I keep such an outdated piece of junk. They keep telling me, “Life is random, iPod Shuffle,” but I ignore their patter. Why not buy a brand spankin’ new iPod Mini that can hold 4 gigs of music? Or if that’s not enough, how about a 40 gig standard iPod?

My uncle gave it to me, I tell them. Sentimentality can always get me out of a direct answer; they can extrapolate all they want. To be honest, if E-spidi stopped working, I’d toss it out in a second. But seriously, who needs four or even forty gigabytes, a millions songs’ worth of music to define who they are? Who listens to that many songs in one sitting, anyway? I need only my forty-five songs, thank you very much.

 

The music suddenly stops as the motion of walking taps the player against my house keys. Damn. See what I said about it being a wuss? Can’t take a freakin’ hit. I take it out of my pocket and press the play button once more, frustration welling in me. Why don’t I just buy a new player? Why do I even bother keeping this pile of crap?

I look around me and realize that I am far from home, in the middle of campus. I’ve forgotten where I was going, and I’ve forgotten the reason for going there.

As the display lights up and the song title scrolls by, the moment of anger and confusion dies down. The old adage is true; music soothes the savage beast. I re-chew my prior thought, now that I’m calmer. The player is not so bad; I shouldn’t replace it just because of a small defect. The fact that E-spidi keeps chugging on with its life makes me want to cling to it, makes me wish that it never breaks down.

I find myself walking again, towards a place only my feet know and for reasons I’ll only know when I get there. Eight minutes and thirty-six seconds of American Pie rolls by and I know every word. Pockets of ignorance in my mind are filled up with years of rock and roll history sung in Don’s silvery voice. Can music save your mortal soul?

 

“Excuse me?”

I look past the rim of my sunglasses, which have slid down the bridge of my nose, to see an elderly couple, holding each other’s hands. I take the headphones out of my ears.

“Yes?”

“Can you tell us how to get to the Campanile?”

I turn around to find that the clock tower, which was once in front of me, is now far behind. I’ve traversed the campus without even knowing it. Pointing to a path slightly to the left, I explain roughly how to get to the landmark.

“Thank you,” they say as they walk away. I put my headphones back into my ears and walk to the edge of campus, a mere forty-five feet away. I stare at the intersection of Hearst and Euclid for a few moments before turning around and walking back the way I came.

Now I remember why I was walking. I wanted to listen to some music.

---

[1] I want to wet this hot body.

Like The Sun

            The small, yellow ball gleamed in the light of the desk lamp while a woman stared at a monitor, desperately looking for the words that eluded her. She typed a few words, then rapidly hit the backspace button until she once again had a blank document. Sighing loudly, she leaned back and looked at the spherical toy.

It sat on her desk, quivering slightly.

Aimee stared at it silently, anxiously twitching her leg. Her computer hummed, waiting for her to resume typing. She reached for the keys, but instead picked up the ball and started tossing it against the wall behind her monitor.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Catching it every time with a practiced ease of someone who obviously spent far too much time playing with a ball than writing papers, Aimee’s thoughts drifted away.

 

It was supposed to be boring. A mundane event held to welcome the fresh meat that had just entered the university. Not that I didn’t remember that time when I was starry-eyed and had dreams of a wonderful time during college. Being a junior shouldn’t make me so jaded, but after all the hard work I’ve had to do to get somewhat passing grades here, I’m not surprised at my attitude. This sure as hell hasn’t been a cake walk. Who would have thought o-chem would be so damn complicated? But I digress.

I didn’t want to go to some stupid event that was just an excuse for companies to sell their goods and for the university to promote their services. Suffice to say, I got enough of that bullshit in my freshman year. Need I repeat it?

Then again, if Lars asks you to do something, you do it. Or else you’ll be hearing his wheedling for a whole week before he either gives up or you give in. Usually the latter happens. He has that way with people, I suppose.

So we walked around the shoddy stalls filled with vendors trying to sell cheap air fares, DSL and cable subscriptions, and anything else that a college student might need. We ambled about, shuffling through the hordes and looking for any freebies that would be worth the effort of reaching out an arm to grab.

“Would you like a super ball?” a girl asked us in a forced cheery voice. She was wearing a university sweatshirt and blue jeans that had holes at the knees and was holding a basket half-full of yellow balls. She had obviously been trying to give out the damn things for a long time and probably couldn’t leave until she finished handing them all out. Feeling some pity for her, I nodded and took a ball.

“Thanks,” I muttered. When I had left her stall, Lars reached over and pulled the ball out of my hand and smiled capriciously.

“Hey!” I said indignantly. “You could have gotten your own, you know.”

He shrugged, casual in his actions and words. “But it’s much more fun taking yours.” Then he took off for the field nearby, laughing all the way. He knows I’ll follow him, that bastard.

I tackled him in the middle of the field and we crashed onto the warm grass, the afternoon sun hitting us as we went down. Staring up at me while I pushed myself off his chest, a sly grin crept onto his face. With one strong shove, I flipped myself onto the grass beside him, evading his encircling arms.

“Damn,” he grumbled, “You’re too fast.” Sitting up, he looked down at me as I lay on my back in the grass, gasping for air. Shit, I’m out of shape.

He pulled the ball out of his pocket and lay back on the grass with me. Holding it up in front of the sun, he and I stared at the yellow orb, watching the light change on its surface. I shifted closer and put my head next to his. I held my hand out, and he handed me the ball. I grasped it tightly for a few moments before loosening my grip, then placed the ball into my pocket. I looked at him, and he looked at me. I think we had a moment. Not sure what kind of moment it was, but I’m sure we had one.

We lay in the sun, enjoying each other’s quiet company. It was such a nice day, the kind you see in Oceanside at the peak of the summer season. People walked by, dogs with their collar tags jangling ran around us, and the sun continued to beat down on us. I wish I had worn some sun screen.

I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew the sun was setting and Lars was poking me in the shoulder with a stick. Where he found the stick, I don’t know. But groggily, I sat up and with my arms on my knees, I stared up at him. He stared back.

He offered me a hand. I took it and he pulled me up. Slowly, we walked back to my apartment, passing the yellow ball between us the whole way.

 

The yellow ball bounced off the wall and in a moment of disregard, it whacked Aimee in the forehead, shocking her back into the present. Shaking her fog from her mind, she glared at the ball as it rolled away towards the door, which was ajar. Strange, she thought. I don’t remember leaving the door open. She slipped off her chair and crawled towards the ball, picking it up as the door opened completely.

“Are you just going to stare at it all night?”

Aimee craned her neck upwards to see a towel-clad Lars in the doorway. Behind him, the hallway was lit up only by the lamp in their bedroom farther back. She stood and gave him the ball.

“Nah, I’ll stare at the real sun tomorrow,” she said, glancing at her clock on the wall. “Er, I mean later today.”

Lars chuckled as he left the living room. “Good night, Aimee.”

---

The Object

It’s a yellow, rubber bouncy ball that I got from Caltopia. The Student Store logo and phone number is printed on it in dark blue. The rubber is partially translucent so the light can shine through it, but not without bending the rays first to create a more concentrated quality of light. It looks smooth, but it’s a bit sticky to the touch. A line runs around the circumference of the toy, revealing where its mold came together. It shakes as I type, and if I drop it on the table it bounces up and down giddily like a little girl.

 

Context

Under my desk lamp, I can see the reflection of the light bulb in the glossy material of the ball. The ball leaves a halo-shaped shadow, light pouring through to the table just below the sphere. It’s late at night, and Aimee is located in the living room of her small apartment which Lars invades on occasion. The ball shakes slightly as she types, for the table that her laptop rests on is a bit unstable. The wood pattern can be seen distorted within the ball, changing with each movement.

 

Why?

I chose this because the ball was just sitting there innocently on my desk. Its simplicity and normalness really got me to thinking: could something so ordinary be infused with a strong emotion? I wanted to connect an ordinary object to a somewhat extraordinary event. Perhaps it’s not that extraordinary, but it’s certainly special for Aimee, who is generally nonchalant about everything. I tried to convey that down-to-earth feeling that she has while at the same time trying to make the event seem special.

 

Narrator Bio

          Aimee Gallagher is a character from one of my old stories. This story takes place when she’s still in college. She tends to take everything in stride, except when a wrong has been done, in which case she vehemently fights back. She is loyal and kind, but also rash and outspoken. Subtle like a brick to the forehead, she likes to get straight to the point. She’s not afraid of facing her problems with a friend for back up; confident with herself and her emotions, she lives for the moment. She is somewhat cynical at times and appears haughty, though she tries not to.

Lotus Brocade

Damian walked through the semi-crowded streets, his Converse shoes scuffing the pavement every few steps. The wind ruffled his blond hair and blew back his Hawaiian shirt to reveal a tattered white T-shirt underneath. He didn’t care that he didn’t match his surroundings, the boutiques and vintage clothing stores turning into a blur in the corner of his eye as he made his way to the usual café at the usual time to meet—

He stopped. His breath caught. Turning slowly to the store window, he gazed upon a red brocade top-skirt outfit on a mannequin. The fabric shimmered in the afternoon sunlight, illuminating the embossed pattern. Stylized silver lotus blossoms wound around the cloth. The top was sleeveless and short enough to show the lower part of the midriff. It also had an opening to expose a small but tantalizing sliver of skin. The collar was folded down. The long skirt had high slits on either side.

Staring stupidly at the outfit, Damian thought of Leila. His eyes glazed over as he imagined her wearing it. Her slender frame and the regal way she carried herself made the dress a perfect fit for his… what was it? He racked his brain for a proper definition of his relationship, but he couldn’t find one. Whatever they had, it wasn’t exactly what he called normal.

He shook himself out of his reverie and looked closer at the outfit. Maybe it was just the quality of light, but like woven fire, the redness of the fabric was emanating a warmth of its own. Like the sun and the moon, the crimson material shone while the lotus flowers reflected the radiance, gleaming quietly. Neither of the colors overpowered the other, and yet if he concentrated on one of them, the other would silently fade away and let the main color take center stage. It was like the Magic Eye books that Damian loved staring at when he was younger.

“Ah, the eighties,” he mumbled. He caught a passing eighty-something year old woman glaring at him and he coughed awkwardly. Walking away, he made a note of the price of the dress and the location of the boutique for later.

 

She wouldn’t. But it can’t hurt to ask, can it? Maybe if I bought it for her. But the price was unbelievable! I couldn’t afford it. Maybe I’ll just save up and get it for her birthday. Yeah right. At this rate it’ll be in five birthdays.

Why do I even bother? She’s playing so hard to get. Maybe I should just give up. We’re polar opposites; I don’t know why she puts up with me. She won’t even take my hand, even when walking down a steep flight of stairs in high heels. Any physical contact we have, I always have to initiate it and I barely get any. Maybe she just wants to be friends.

But every time I think that, she does something that gives me hope, says something under her breath that she thinks I can’t hear. But I hear every single word. I hear how you whisper ‘idiot’ under your breath, the word coming out as a tender endearment. I hear your mumbling when you fall asleep on my shoulder during the action films you find so boring. How you want me to be by your side forever.

No, I can’t give up. I’ve been working at this for six months. Chipping away at that wall she puts between herself and the world. I can feel her tentatively reaching for me, though she doesn’t know it. I couldn’t leave her alone now. She needs me, I think.

Or maybe I need her. I can be my bipolar self and she’ll accept it all with a quiet assurance that comforts me, tells me without words that it’s okay to have two conflicting thoughts at the same time.

I think she can unwind around me, if only a little. I want her to unwind around me. I want to take her dark chocolate hair out of her ponytail and let it cascade over her shoulders and her back. I want to see her hazel eyes staring up at me with something other than guarded amusement. I want to see her in that red dress. Hell, I want to see her out of it, too. I want to touch her skin, smell the gardenia lotion on her neck, I want…

I think maybe I want too much.

There’re too many unknowns in my life, dammit. I need to get my act together!

 

Seated at a corner table in the café, Leila quietly sipped her café latte, holding the mug daintily in both hands. Her legs were crossed and tucked under her chair, her back straight. She didn’t say a word as Damian slipped into the chair across from her with a double espresso in one hand and a black bottom muffin in the other. She shook her head at his choices.

“I don’t understand how you can order their most bitter drink and then purchase their sweetest muffin.”

Damian shrugged. “They balance out.”

Silence spread for a few minutes. Then Damian broached the topic on his mind.

“I was thinking—“

“No.”

Damian frowned. Did she always have to be so difficult? But the flickering glances she cast his way as he watched her fired up his determination.

“Please, I just want you to try on a dress.”

“That’s all?” she mumbled in disbelief.

“Yes, that’s all. Please?”

“…Fine.”

 

Walking back to the shop took only a few moments, and Damian whisked her inside to change. When the door of the dressing room creaked open and Leila stepped out, his mind stopped. Damian quickly picked his jaw off the ground and took two swift steps towards her. Pulling her close, he traced the collar with a finger and leaned in to whisper to her:

“One day, I’ll buy this dress for you. I swear.”

Hiding her reddening cheeks, Leila turned her head away. “The only reason you want to buy it is so you can take it off me later,” she said.

Damian grinned. “So I do get to take it off?”

“I never promised anything.” But he could see the small smile on her lips as she went back into the changing room.

The Watch

It’s just a watch.

Aimee tried thinking that as she stared at the worn leather band, but to no avail. A heavy emotion settled over her heart as she poked the shattered timepiece on her desk. Tiny gears fell out and rolled away, dropping to hardwood floor.

Clink, clink.

It’s not just a watch.

Sighing, she picked up the pieces and put them in a plastic case. Pulling on a linen jacket, she took her keys and left her apartment, walking quickly to the closest watch repair shop.

“It’s going to be hard to fix this,” said the old man in the store. His wizened features softened as he looked at her downcast expression. “Why don’t you just buy a new one? I’ll even give you a discount if you trade in the old one.”

“I can’t do that,” Aimee replied, slightly aghast. “I need that watch fixed!”

The man clucked at her. “It’ll take some time. I might have to special order some of the parts. Of course, that’ll cost ya extra,” he warned. “Are you sure you don’t want a new one? It’s just a watch,” he added in a helpful tone.

Tracing the intricate Celtic patterns on the leather strap, Aimee shook her head. “No, that’s fine. I’ll pay extra.”

Shrugging, the man wrote her an estimate for the price and told her to come back in a week. Aimee left the store feeling naked. For the first time since she had graduated, she was outside without her watch. She rubbed at the pale band of skin on her right wrist and dawdled to work, her thoughts on the past.

 

“Congratulations!” Lars yelled to her as he came close. He sheepishly handed her a small, poorly wrapped box. “Here’s your graduation gift,” he said with a shy grin.

Aimee, dressed in her graduation gown, tucked her hat underneath her arm and opened the gift. Gasping in surprise, she lifted the watch from its packaging and dangled it in the sunlight. The delicately engraved timepiece sparkled in the sun, and the leather band was tastefully decorated with imprinted Celtic knots.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered in awe. Her hands trembling, she could barely hold onto the watch as she tried putting it on her wrist. She fumbled with the strap buckle, failing twice before Lars took over. Putting her arm out and admiring the watch as it shimmered in the light, Aimee smiled widely. “Thanks,” she finally said. “For everything.”

Lars just shrugged and smiled widely. “You’ve been through a lot. It’s time you went into the real world, you know?”

Aimee nodded. “Yeah, I know.”

 

It had been three years since then. The watch had continued ticking strongly, through wind and rain, through her move to Minnesota of all places, and her return to California five months later. On the other hand, her friendship with Lars had grown weaker by the month. At first they had called each other twice or three times a week. Now they barely called each other at all, even though she lived only half a city away.

Her new job here was hectic, but she enjoyed it most of the time. The watch was always an integral part of her wardrobe and she took care of it, making sure the leather didn’t get wet or that she didn’t accidentally smack the timepiece into a wall or something equally as hard. Yet as the months went by, it seemed as though the watch was chaining her to the past. Every time she looked at it, it reminded her of the good times she had in college, but also of the regrets that remained, words left unspoken. These days her constant daydreams of what could have happened distracted her from being as productive as she could be, and her laments weighed heavily on her mind.

She did not want to completely disregard what had happened in her time at school, but much had changed since then. Her attitude, her opinions, and even her fashion sense had altered as she got to know new people and found herself in different surroundings. She felt as though her old personality was a set of chains tying down her new, blooming character. If she wanted to grow and develop, she had to let go of the past.

In an attempt to do just that, she had tried to not wear the watch this morning. But as she stepped foot outside of her doorway, she realized that she couldn’t leave the house without it. Already running late, she returned to her room and had tried to grab it quickly, but instead she accidentally knocked it off her nightstand onto the floor, where it had shattered.

Now, as Aimee trudged into work a full two hours late, she faced an irate boss and a looming deadline. This was not turning out to be a good day. But she had already started to look forward to the future with optimism. She could not keep clinging to her memories the way she had been for the last three years. Living in the past was not a good way to live; in fact, it wasn’t really living at all. Smiling despite herself, she settled into her seat and began to work, letting the events of the here and now take precedence over her constant musing of the past. She would not forget, but she would not let herself live in a dream world of what-ifs, either. Slowly, she began to free herself from her chains.

 

One week later…

 

The bells on the door jingled softly, alerting the shopkeeper to Aimee’s presence. Frowning, he shook his head like a doctor in a hospital.

“I’m sorry lady, but your watch must have been specially made. The parts for it are all custom made. I can salvage the bands, but the timepiece has to be completely scrapped.”

Aimee smiled. “Sure, that’s fine. Actually, can you attach a new timepiece to the old straps?”

The old man blinked a few times. “Sure, but why the change of heart? Last week you looked like you were going to die without it completely intact.”

Grinning confidently, she replied, “I had an epiphany during the week. Besides, it’s just a watch.”