fullsto_p

The waves of envy and longing ought not to be mine to expunge, for even with its obliteration, a salient axiom stands under the spotlight, garish and blinding. I could have claimed a sort of rigid, rehearsed poise and adumbrated the slightest discordance with well-performed apathy but I guess there's only human nature to blame for the automatic proclivity towards obstreperous cacophony, no matter how annoying it was. Especially since I am most inclined to oblige with playing fool at certain social circumstances so as to maintain a decorous persona I seem to be so fond of. 

I should say, that the flagrant intervention of an inchoate fate is non-existential and this is surprisingly pleasing for a sensate like myself, but of course, sensate is an understatement. A subliminal epiphany might have shot me in the head at an unknown point in time, for which I am unusually thankful for. I suppose that the complementary individual has yet to surface, but I, too, understand that these things take time and that good things come to those who wait although the latter appears to be an abject reason for my compulsion to a proliferated patience. 

He took a whiff, cigarette smoke infiltrating once-pure air molecules, and reclined on the black leather armchair he claimed as territory. His eyes, bearing a faraway gaze, hint more than just a subtle sign of vexation and the distressed individual let out an inaudible sigh. His countenance barely revealed any sign of sorrow--- there, vacant. The lone drops hit cautiously against the frosted panes, wary of infuriating the inhabitants. After a couple of minutes, she came out of her sanctuary, clad with a white terry bath robe. Her wet, matted hair did fine to cover those brown orbs. He needn't see her switch taps. She stood outside the bathroom, uncertainty filling her insides dreadfully. A pregnant silence; taciturnity evident. Her mind was clouded with inquisitions, inhibitions, yet, the stinging quietness was the ever prevalent being, the only being indulging and seemingly satisfied with the current plight. She ran her fingers through her damp hair and sighed.

"I can’t make it for dinner tonight. Beamon’s calling for a meeting before the conference call from Sweden. You go ahead.”

She hesitated, before picking her strewn about habiliments and then, headed for the exit through the heavy doors.

Sometime later, she would find herself back at the same page, clueless, doubting and very much troubled. 

……….

The woman stood at the entrance of Macy’s, opposite Herald Square, Broadway Sixth Avenue, with several shopping bags in tow and a pair of Gucci shades covering half her face. Her eyes scanned across the area from behind the shades, before she began making her way to Central Park. Over there, she walked in the direction of Bethesda Terrace, and then with the poise of a proper lady, settled comfortably at the edge of the fountain. Waiting, with a yellowed “New York times” in her hand. Waiting, like the previous years. Simply waiting, possibly anticipating.

15^th March, 19:00.

19:05, 19:30, 20:00.

And like the previous years, he was late. She took a whiff of her smoking pipe, rolled her eyes. She sprayed a few spritzes of her Chanel No.5 in the air, took her shopping bags and then left, along with her Chanel 2.55. (Yes, the gift from him.)

He had to acquiesce to the whimsical demands of that fussy client. He had schedules to review, conferences to attend, proposals to vet and accounts to analyse. Outside, it was raining incessantly. The wind howled and the trees danced to the solemn rhythm, swaying. Swaying, just like how emotions would. He had no time for roses, no time at all. He’ll just send her a Chanel Timeless CC. It will make do. “Beamon, 16^th March, tomorrow… 2 in the afternoon… Marketing strategy and budget discussion.” 

Hold the horses. The 15^th. He stood up almost instantaneously, accidentally knocking down his paperweight, grabbed his Prada coat and dialled the chauffeur’s number. “You have 2 minutes to get to the entrance of the office tower. I need to get to the central park immediately.” He rushed down several flights of stairs and hopped onto his Mercedes Benz.

20:01.

He reached the Bethesda fountain just then, greeted with the lingering scent of familiarity. He cursed once more, completely drenched in the relentless raindrops. The blackberry rang. “Sir, your purchase from Chanel has been delivered to her.”

Over at Irving place, Lexington Avenue, Manhattan, the lady walked into Pete’s Tavern, taking extra caution of her fluid movements so as to avoid creasing her new Versace dress. She had to seek shelter from the intermittent pouring. Moreover, a drink to clear the clouds in her head would be most apt.

“Hey Jules, how are you doing?”

“’m never better, miss! The usual, ma’am? Cosmopolitan, more lime, less cranberry?”

She hesitated. How many nights had gone by with the stinging taste of vodka, the burning sensation which sweeps through her throat and that bittersweet taste that always remained in the recesses of both mind and soul? She was not so much of a masochist to intentionally remove any source of amelioration and simply succumb to the numbing pain, though this topic was frequently entertained by the sorrowful lover. She cut herself some slack, using alcohol (like the other drunkards) as a sort of analgesic, in fervent hope to allay the discomfort stirring from within.

“Miss?”

“Well, Jules, I’ll have tequila today. A Tequila Sunrise, thank you.”

“Goin’ sour, eh? More lemon, miss?”

“Most certainly. More lemon…more lemon…” she muttered, before whispering almost inaudibly, “or not.”

She held up the glass, her dainty fingers grasping on to the stem of it, twirling and swirling the liquid, seeing as the molecules hit one another, seeing as they rotate and collide in a mess. After a while, she took a sip, cringing as the first drop hit her taste buds.

Chanel Timeless CC? Chanel 2.55? Chanel everything. She loved Chanel alright. Just not the man who ascribed meaning to it, who accredited it with a greater meaning, a particular significance that ought to be ripped off. They aren’t the same. Opposites can’t attract if the magnetism isn’t strong enough. The bags have different locks, different leather, and different chains. It doesn’t matter if they look the same at first glance because ultimately, they are fundamentally different. Like how he sips at the Chardonnay Ash Ridge at the Black Door by Sixth Avenue while she gazes at the nasty tasting tequila.

It just isn’t right. Like the hackneyed saying, the pieces to the puzzles don't fit.

Who is she to allow this masticated thing to continue on?

 “Jules, tomorrow, I’m having a Shirley Temple.”

“Ahh, too sour? You want sweet? Count on me, ma’am. You have a great evening!”

She decided she had done enough chasing. She has covered too long a distance in that Louboutin Pumps. Her legs are sore and the blisters unsightly. She was never tasked to triumph in this game of catching. Well, au revoir, Hide-And-Seek. She's drawing a full stop, marking the dot with dexterity, completing the artful stroke with finality, a resolute concentration on that simple full stop.

The pretty blonde from the opposite table strutted towards him, presenting the bachelor with a self-introduction, using a husky voice which sounded more hoarse than sexy. He sneered.

Somewhere, sometime ago on the 15^th of March, he had heard a similar one (though it was a lot more pleasant). Only, the other was impinged upon his memory and reverberated dreams and nightmares altogether simultaneously. For never again will the fair maiden grace his presence with her dulcet tones.

Especially since he extinguished the already weak, burning flame with the resolute thought of marketing strategies and budget discussions.

The early hours of awakening dawn found me alone in bed, with nothing but your t-shirt on. As I open my eyes, dreading the expected, the scene played out just as any other would.

There, empty.

And in its stead, you left but a note of apology, a disingenuous sorry minced with crocodile tears, willing me to asphyxiate at the prospect of a perfidious counterpart so adroit at the art of duplicity.

Years later, as I walk down the memory lane driven by nostalgia, I'd smirk and shake my head, in a suave manner as I press the delete button, in a sanguine disposition. 

Then, I would've bade farewell to a puerile decision made by a mindless fool long before the bits of maturity overwhelmed her cells.