A Familiar Stranger

A finger tapped on my shoulder. Standing beside me is a woman waiting for a bus. She looked down and said my shoelaces are off.

The way she said it, soft and stern. She sent off the scent of jasmine and vanilla, and I knew it was Chanel No.5. I glanced at her one more time and she smiled. The wrinkles on her under-eyes brought me back to something, so I glanced at her once again.

She said do I want to taste her handmade sandwich, I said sure. She said she put avocado in it and if I don’t like it that’s understandable. I said I do like avocado. Actually, I don’t.

Her bus arrived. Farewell she bid as she complimented my short hair.

I was surprised by my own reply, “Thanks, mom.”


Sepia is the Color

Time wasn’t there when your pair of brown eyes locked into mine, between chirping of the birds and orange lights pouring over crooked parquet.

I felt the happiest and it felt like forever. I promised this to you, when you were asleep, or when you went to the kitchen to cook pasta enough for two; my dear, forever is overrated but we live inside it. 

That afternoon, you said we live in a space where time doesn’t exist. You said if I heard a bird chirping, I should just think that it is you. Same goes with the smell of long black, or the sound of leaves brushing against each other, or when your pillow turns cold. I should just think it is still you.

But your pillow was always as warm as your fingertips.

Tonight was the first time I checked the temperature of your pillow, it was cold, and the lights were off, and I felt empty. I should just think there is still you.

If time doesn’t exist, where are you sleeping right now?