And The Blood is Brown

There's a bloody vortex staring back at her in the toilet bowl. It kisses her in the wheat field that is the bathroom stall. A blood clot the size of a stag stains her pad, whimpering noises emanating from her pelvis in tandem with the flush of the toilet. She eyes the stag like it's a smear of bloody red meat and pulls her skirt and panties up with a fatigued look. She practically crawls on her knees back to her work desk, blood creeping into cotton like a date with the butcher.

She feels each droplet and the pulse of the veins in her vulva as she sits and types at her desk. The garnishing scent of iron she vaguely wonders if others can smell on her. One wrong shift in her desk chair and a goatfish will come galloping out of her, tearing through flesh on a river of capillary blood. The blank look in her eyes hides the fact that she's being strangled every minute by her own uterus. Once it's been an hour, she gets up to go to the restroom and repeat the process of soaking her pads in blood samples.

At the bus stop she feels her muscles pull at her entrails like fishing wire, the bloodless tissue in her abdomen. She bites her lower lip just as sanguine, the only one in on her gory secret. The synapse ride home on a dark bloodstream road, her tongue tasting of cloudberries. Another ten-sided blood clot pushes it's way through her cervix with enough force to make her jump as she opens her front door. Spleen and liver in knots for a second week of abruption.

Red cells mix with bodily fluid the next day. She spreads her legs and eyes the blood clot blood sausage in the toilet bowl. She wonders if she pushes hard enough if a main artery will slip out in-between uterine lining. The smooth muscle akin to beef tongue sinks to the bottom of her porcelain toilet. Even in the shower it's hard to wash the feel of animal tissue from her thighs and inner labia. Her periods usually lasted for half a century, as if her flow was constantly remapping.

At work, in the heat of the mid-summer sun, she molts at her desk, secreting blood and sweat like an elephant shrew. The idleness and wakefulness of period pangs draining the life from her like a decade parasite. It's not ichor that flows from her uterus, she's no Greek goddess, it's just human viscus. It's cramps and chronic soreness. It's anemia and the rustiness of her own cunt. The anxiety of spurting through her skirt at any given moment, pains on display for her whole office to see. The fear easily gets drowned out by the dysfunction of wooziness until she's nothing more than a heap of zoned out nerves and torn through emptiness, a slippery black blood clot where the self used to be.

Blushing Phantom

There's a pigeon outside my window staring me dead in the eyes. I wonder if that's a bad omen in some culture, with its dragon eyes barbing into my being. I wait for it to take flight or poke my eyes out. Fly away baldy, take my bleeding-heart with you, bring it as a telegram to the partridge doves. My heart flutters like the batting of this birds wings, I've memorized the pulse of my mended heart, performed open heart surgery on myself, the soft sweetness of the oxheart you devoured in your wake. I trace my love line, ink on my palms. Love is a red pen, splashing ink like chicken's blood across life and light. I wrapped my soul in gauze, applied first aid to the rifts, licked up my own bleeding, and placed my smudged palm to my breast and the flinty collapse beating under my ribcage.

Everyone's had their share of shitty boyfriends, unfaithful prince charmings clasping at our broken hearts, the louts from afar that wreck and split us open like lobsters, the aliases smothering us in zero infinity. The viscera of a bad boyfriend can ruin or soothe you, depending on the heartbreak. Can you forgive the unresponsive?

I spend the day listening to a lecturer speak, say words in a rush of scholarship wildlife arcs. Putting students through a dance of financial aid and pipe bulletins. Studied donations and survey courses helping me along my uncertainty. I grind for rhetorical exams, accredit my studies, and I'm bound to reapply. Remember the exhibition of education while you're in each seminar. Should I flunk out of residential college? I'm a dropout whether I stay or leave.

I'm a goddaughter, which I never remember, but I am. I wonder what the phobia is of losing one's parents. The past would be the other side of my memories, and I'd have to come to my aunt to find the right way to live my life. What's the right thing to do? Why do I love the smell of rain and old books? Why do I feel the urge to kiss everyone that smiles in a way I adore? When it's the right time, I think I'll feel it deep in the pit of me. I'll be a godchild rich with questions and places to be, so let me interview you, the ones I love, just a little bit.

Spin Cycle

You call me amethyst, like something chromatic, refracting your light without any of my own color separating and spilling onto you, once delicate, now transparent.

But I was always transparent, you just never noticed, or you never believed me, one of the two.

I call you milk glass, like something opaque, you taste like bone ash and arsenic, you call me transparent but so are you, at least I’m not as empty.

We are, on the other hand, both selfish.

I say this, and it sounds spiteful and raw, but really, it’s just fluff.

The train ride to the laundromat is long and I lack patience. You know this, so maybe that’s why you said you wished the train had wax wings to get us there quicker.

We both laughed, but it lacked humor, mingling with the metallic rumble of the train.

“In this heat? They’d melt and we’d fall from the sky straight into the sea.”

“You should fly too close to the sun, you aren’t petty for wanting too much.”

“I often want what I know won’t make me happy, though.”

I blink the hot sunlight out of my eyes slowly, your arm brushing against mine, the feel of you always just out of reach. I think you do it on purpose, either to be a tease or out of fear of something.

The talk of trivial things helps make the train ride a little less painful, and you know that.

***

Laundromats remind me of hospitals, with their stark bright white lighting illuminating where to cut into the body, tear out the tissue, and deform organs. It conjures up the memory of when I had to have my appendix removed, a sharp phantom knife twisting into the lower right side of my abdomen on a gray Sunday morning. You stayed by my side the whole time, your brown eyes rivaling the way the surgeon dissected me later that evening, minimally invasive, but still temporarily painful.

When we finally get to the laundromat it’s half-empty, only the mounted television screens displaying many flashing commercials to fill the silence. The modest laundromat near our apartment is a 24-hour one run by a middle-aged woman and her husband. I wonder briefly if they’ve really been married long enough to own a business together. Who was the one who brought up the idea of starting a laundromat, of all things?

You’re the one who immediately begins separating the laundry on a nearby folding table the way a surgeon prepares a patient. You fold some clothes inside out, mostly T-shirts and jeans, what used to be our weekly mundane routine now feels more like an annual physical exam. Just like how you know me inside out, you have a way of turning my inner parts outward, it helps keep my color from fading.

Even if sometimes it feels like you’re brutally ripping my skin off to reveal the red, knotted muscle beneath.

I watch you separate the dark colors from the light colors, the heavy fabrics from the delicate fabrics, just as you’re always separating your hidden shadow from your social persona, heavy emotions from delicate acts, but you need help gathering up the sheets.

I grab the opposite end of our sheets with you doing the same, though not as clumsily. You step towards me, bringing our corners together, my fingertips brushing against yours. Your expression says it’s just housekeeping, but the peony white of our linen reminds me of the night prior, how your fingertips melted into the flesh of my thighs, my mouth filled with insects as you kissed me slow and steady, as you still managed to despite your deflection. I traced the outline of the dowsing rod between your legs, my words came out upside down and yours quadrupled, dissolving together in a weird box of tangled limbs and temptations, the dishes left forgotten in the sink.

You over-slept, still wrapped in our sex-strewn sheets, while I paced the kitchen with nothing to keep my anxious mind busy.

That’s why we ended up at the laundromat in the afternoon with the hot midday sun scrutinizing us with its heated gaze.

“Lately I’ve felt lonely.”

“You’ve always had a difficult time believing in yourself.”

I can’t help but roll my eyes, but it’s because I know you’re right, in some cryptic, annoying way. I know I can say things impulsively, especially when I feel cornered, so I wait, giving my conscience a chance to speak first, but it doesn’t have any retort, it knows you’re right too.

“You don’t get angry, or depressed, or lonely? Nothing about you is selfish.”

You shrug, pouring a bit of blue syrup detergent into the washer dispenser of one of the nearby washing machines. I grimace, watching you throw the delicates and light colors into the washing machine before handing me the laundry detergent, like a peace offering, a rain check on spewing ugly words at each other like throwing drinks in each other’s faces.

You’re detaching again, but I guess it’s easier to notice the similarities between us rather than the differences.

I sigh under my breath, pouring some detergent into the washer dispenser on a washing machine about two away from the one you just loaded. I toss the heavy fabrics and dark colors in with reckless abandon. I’m usually in charge of my feelings, but I hate how you’re able to influence that with just a snarky remark, or lack thereof, a crooked tooth grin on the rare occasion.

My eyes steal a glance at you as you press the hot water button, putting it on a normal cycle, and suddenly I’m underselling my entire existence on this planet. I swallow back the lumps of dryer sheets in my throat, as if I’d just watched a fantasy lover die right before my very eyes. I think it would hurt less if you showed any signs of grief or love, hating me would at least mean you still cared about me the most, but lately, there’s nothing but numbness.

“You just like seeing me make an ass of myself.” I murmur.

You smile a bit. “You break your own heart.”

I set the water temperature to hot, pressing the normal cycle button. I watch as hot water fills the washing machine, pouring in like a flood of wet choreography. It reminds me of how I sobbed at the end of our last specious argument, maybe you were right, I only convinced myself I was in love with you this whole time, but I don’t entirely believe that.

I assumed you would at least try to put in the effort, not all the effort, but at least some of it, but you never did, and I still have no idea why. All I wanted was for you to see me, and for a while, it felt like you did. The mornings spent waking up in your arms with my drool drenching your shirt, the sticky notes I left around the house, just so you knew you were on my mind. Maybe I didn’t consider your needs, it wasn’t my intention to treat you like a life raft.

It’s taking me a long time to realize, I can’t convince you to love me.

“You don’t even say it anymore.”

“I can change and still love you. Me saying I love you isn’t going to make you whole.”

“You treat love like it’s just for entertainment. You don’t actually know what you want.”

“We need a better word for love.”

I never knew love tasted like sour candy without the sweet aftertaste until I met you.

You take a seat in a cold folding chair beside me, just like on the subway train. I watch the clothes in the washing machines in front of us doing pirouettes, a meshing of colors. I let my brain finally rest, soothed by the ballad of waterfalls and electric hums, watching how our clothes change shape with the water, a constant fluctuation, kind of like us. I see us in the gray areas in between the spin cycle, fractured, but still spinning despite the shifts.

I remember the courage it took me to be vulnerable with you, how you always showed me the way when I felt scattered, helped me practice saying no until its depth truly sunk into me, challenged me to go deeper, and cracked my ribs open when you saw I couldn’t do it myself. I listened to you rant in the middle of the night while I rambled on about how I saw you in my dreams.

The first time you told me to stop internalizing my emotions, I knew I was in love with you. But my love language is being a hand mirror, so in return, I told you to stop ignoring your emotions. I remember the sound of your laugh in the stillness, like a tchotchke rattling in your chest.

I don’t think I’ll ever stop loving you, even if the only thing we have in common is our loneliness.

I feel your fingers ghost over mine like an afterthought.

I rest my head on your shoulder, unsure whether to reach out, but also too tired to keep trying.

Our self-portrait on the big break of our love life.

Previously published by The Ikebana Magazine and reprinted by The B'K Magazine

Luminescence

In a sea of trout, you were the eel I mistook for an angelfish, caught in my own regret and your compassionate steam amid the saltwater stinging my eyes bright red. Against my blank stare, your good-looking smile painted a portrait of desire to me in a way that made my blood boil like soup stock. Hooking up with you was never my intention, I would've rather eaten glass for brunch than attempted the idea of intimacy with a stranger. I get attached to the concept of warmth too easily. I ignore your values, your looks, your speech, all for your perception of me. I want so desperately to know how others perceive me, fear me, love me. I'm such a stranger to myself, I was hoping you could've introduced me to this wonderful person you kept talking about with my name and face.

I flit between numbness and sentimentality like a broken down electrical circuit and you found that endearing for some unknown reason. The first time we fucked, I recorded the scene just to see what faces and sounds this woman you were kissing and biting made. In the end, she was an erotic, needy mess that turned me on just as much, if not more. You maybe had good taste, but I sure as hell didn't.

You smelled like risotto the first time we met and I wanted to take a bite out of you. This beautiful stranger with hair the color of darkness and achromatic eyes echoing so much potential of what could've been. A weekend spent in the city of your bedroom, your mattress was Manhattan, grasping at your nightstand as I came crashing back down. Your bedpost was a voyeur and you were my white knight in a four-wall wonderland of fluffy pillows and soaked sheets.

In retrospect, it was a salt flat where I watched my softness get resurrected just to die again. The ambience of you was like a blue sky in April and for a split second, I thought I had wings. Caught up in you, when you asked me if I wanted to go to that Deftones concert together, it was a promise I leapt at, my love of loud metal and my body still tingling from your capable hands. Not even you could make me hate Chino's dissonant voice with the thought of you. The fire in my voice and your charismatic tone howled the lyrics to Be Quiet and Drive (Far Away) in almost perfect unison. In a moshpit of dancing and screaming, I was more than happy to slam into your body while the harsh sound of guitar and drums serenaded us.

You had snuck around me in more ways than I thought one could in a mere week. Carnations and chocolate cake, sweet words to console the breathiness of my rat tears, rainy night drives with you cursing under your breath in your native tongue at the stupidity of the other drivers on the road with us. I tell you your death glare is sexy and you rest your calloused hand on my thigh for the remainder of the drive. Your touch was heroin and I should've told you I was a recovering addict, but it skipped my mind. The thought of eating anything with cocoa in it now makes me want to vomit, the sweetness too cloying and sticky.

We both can't stand the bright light of early mornings, so we hide under the covers exchanging caresses. “Whatever you want, whatever will make you feel better,” you knew what to say to warm my convulsing heart. I'm not one of those people who believe it's better to have loved and lost, I would've rather never met you. The quick stint that was you ripping through the pomegranate ripeness of my longing to be cared for in the smoking section of some wannabe romance. Your caress is nostalgic of a touch I haven't had in years and I relish the feel of skin ghosting over mine.

The misty rainfall is like a neon zoetrope drenching us in thunderclouds and surrounding us in water vapor and the smell of petrichor. Your apartment is suddenly a storm drain I find myself caught in with you, your calloused frankfurter fingers tickling my spine underneath the fabric of my pajamas.

For the first time in a long time, I didn't feel like a burden with you. I wear my most vibrant lipstick and get down on my knees for you with rug-burned knees at the ready. I look up at you as if you're the Canis Major, nuzzling into the thought of your shape with your hands in my hair. I leave my bright mark on your skin, smeared burgundy, one truth in the lie of a roleplay where I trust you to take control of my being.

In half dreams, I rest my head in your lap as some benign horror movie plays in the background, viscera keeping us company. You run your fingers through the algae in my dirty hair and feel like a fawn in your lap. I shift to look up at you through my fatigued eyelashes, the ones spared from my anxious plucking. I hunt through your eyes for signs of lust or intrigue, shifting again to curl into the clothed expanse of your stomach and I want you. The sound of a movie chainsaw drowns out the screech of me unzipping your pants and my own tongue. Corn syrup blood and shrill screams, the sounds of slurping and stifled moans, my sluttiest need to be acknowledged. I think most guys only stay with me for my mouth, I mean that both linguistically and sexually, I was hoping deep down you were different.

I worry so much about jinxing everything. My brain processes each decision and every behavior to make sure it aligns well to who I'm interacting with. I was never searching for anything other than excitement and in the end, I found myself drenched in your warm, ropey artificial depth. Your tacit kiss rusts with the failure on my tongue, cayenne and honey under bright kitchen lights. I don't deserve it, but you tell me I'm wonderful. Snared in a relapse of coping and dependence, a wild hunger deep in the pit of me for something indescribable. A suffering transfusion of libido, I find myself tumbling with you, fingers itching for a cigarette to go with my morning medications. Near the end, our dynamic felt more like an animal study, you watching a razorback gaffe and swan dive into the comfortable ocean it momentarily labeled you.

I keep clearing my throat, the image of you still seared into my mind, apropos a night of warm, fluent sex, and I'm pistol-whipped with the fact that you're not coming back. It's rainy season with Joni Mitchell playing faint in the background and the smell of your disgusting black bitter coffee still lingering somewhere. How ironic that the lovers came to me only now that you've vanished into nothing more than a wispy concept. The sky is cherry blossom purple and everything feels like a sick joke and an ornate gift wrapped up in the same twinkling cellophane. We both hated fried octopus and loved Italian, Alien was one of our favorite films, you had a penchant for sweets just like me, we both were a little neurotic, and I can't help but smile through the fading tears, staring deep into my cup of tea. My heart is as stretchable as a crane. There's room in my heart for a universe of others, each with different places and purposes, not one love is greater or less than the other.

Depth

“I want you to finish my sentences.” It's slurred drunkenly, glass of Moscato in my free hand, strap of my dress dropped to my shoulder.

Arranged dates are a different kind of lonely that really accentuates itself. You're suddenly hyper-aware of yourself and the loneliness sitting across from you in this sushi restaurant.

“I like to give people the space to pay attention to themselves, take care of themselves.” That last part is emphasized in a way that makes me feel like a child. Ignorant, cruel, and playful.

I journaled about this night in advance, dreamed of it, dancing around boring conversation, I took a class in it. I imagine sucking on your tongue, if only so you'll be more interesting. I give a lot to others, but it's honestly just for recognition, I couldn't care less what they're feeling or going through. I never used to be this way though, I can't help but wonder if that makes me a bad person as I bring nothing but clumps of wasabi to my lips, sushi all but devoured.

“You're so chivalrous. I wanna be a mess with you.” I see your eyes perk up, “No touching though.”

I could see myself being comfortable enough to be codependent with you over philosophical conversation. You're smart and can hold your liquor better than I can, we'd be fun together at parties. You could read to me while I jack you off under the covers. It sounds just plain nice.

“You're boring, but the warm kind of boring I'd like to get caught up in.” Your eyes look glassy with the thought.

I appreciate your honesty and I tell you so with my foot brushing up against your leg underneath the table.

“It's because I'm a people pleaser.”

“That's just a nice way of saying you hate people.” You smirk, a speckle of masago caught in the whiskery hairs on your face.

“Even you.” I giggle, the wasabi wafting up into my head along with the wine.

You reach over with your warm veiny hands, pulling my dress strap back up. “Even me.”

I'm in too deep by the time I get to the bottom of my wineglass, wanting nothing more than your touch swallowing me up in the depth of you and our nothingness.

This piece was originally published by Nowhere Girl Collective, you can read it here if you’d like.

Glittering Days, Wistful Yearning

I'd kiss the bruise between your legs with fleeting lips. It's a sticky note left on his desk with reckless abandon and deliberate tenderness. Callahan stares hard at the note, face heating up, she had never been so overt before. In the 5 years they'd been coworkers there had been an immediate intrigue and care between the two, a playful ebb and flow. He was lovesick, wrapped in the idea of her nail lacquer and dancing eyes. His eyes peek over at her desk, the sound of her fingertips on her keyboard is crooning to his ears. Their office rendezvouses were on a deeper level than simple talk of sex, Callahan could never find the rhythm of sex, never quite understood the appeal of lasciviousness. But with Lilah, it was whispered desires, flights of fancy yearning, the occasional lipstick smears on his shirt collar, and that was enough for him.

In a public park, they might've crossed paths, but kept up the bit of being nothing more than coworkers, because they were nothing more than coworkers and that was enough and comfortable. Callahan reads the words on his computer screen aloud under his breath and Lilah traces each syllable with anticipation. She had finished her tasks at least an hour ago but she knew he was a slow typist, so all she could do was wait and watch, mindlessly flipping through the pages of a shiny magazine, mind elsewhere. She wanted his hands to imprint into her skin for once, she was tired of love notes left in emails, quick caresses while passing pens and parchment, longing stares from across the office. She wanted to feel his motivation, finally.

She heaves a sigh, getting up from her desk to head to the break room. Callahan notices out of the corner of his eyes, the lace of her black shift dress, shimmering legs in blue nylon stockings, she leaves in a stride of rum and black orchids, the last little hint of peru balsam making his nose twitch on the verge of a sneeze, as it often did, beautiful down to the last animalic note.

Lilah stares out at the clear day, watching as light snow falls from the sky, melts against the windows in a hush. She'd probably get more heat being under a quilt than she would waiting around for him to pick up the pace and take notice, take her. She brews herself a cup of Earl Grey, a kiss of brick red lipstick on her cup and vaguely hears the sound of slowly approaching footsteps, eyes stuck on a washed-out sky.

“You know, we have a full agenda today,” Callahan says, voice as uncertain as ever.

Lilah smirks from the lip of her teacup but doesn't dare turn around. “It's a glittery morning, you should indulge yourself.”

He smiles faintly, “Blue is my favorite color.”

“I rarely adorn stockings but I wanted your attention.”

“You always have my attention, Lilah.” It's said with the utmost sincerity, Callahan pressing his warm palm against her soft shoulder blade, and even through the fabric of her dress she shivers.

“Thank you, Callahan.” She murmurs, tea all but forgotten.

He sighs, moving away to walk over to the coffee machine. For a while, it's just the sounds of subtle dripping, clinking silverware against ceramic, and rustling papers.

“Why is it, the time I spend with you in this cramped office feels more real to me than walking the streets or going to the grocery store?” Lilah laughs a bit at her own shaky voice.

Callahan stares at her for a moment, cup of hot coffee in his hand. “I had a dream I was kissed by you, rather than giddiness or love, I only felt the sticky peck of your kiss.”

Lilah finally turns around to stare at him, smiling with a devilish glimmer in her eyes, head over heels. Callahan smiles back, extending out a hand for wanton fingertips to flit over his, intertwining fingers, feeling warmth, the softness of skin, palms pressed together.

“What I wouldn't give just to kiss you for hours on end.” Lilah says it with ease, nothing coy about her.

“Slow and hungry, fragile warmth, tangible static through lips, tongue, and teeth.” Callahan follows her etiquette, desires on a tear.

“To be able to call you mine, to hear you call me yours, rather than possession more like devotion in its simplest form.” It's an admittance of sorts for her. I want intimacy.

Callahan presses his thumb into her skin, close enough that she can smell the soap he washed with, no cologne to disguise who he was under the suit and tie. “I want you, in my head, in my heart, in my body, I can't stop thinking about it, so keep filling up my days with little snippets of you.”

Lilah stares, surprised by Callahan's rare act of sensuality. He pulls out a few pieces of red foil-wrapped dark chocolate from his suit jacket, hands a piece to Lilah, and keeps one for himself. A sweet treat to trust in the rest of their day together.

He smiles, voice barely a whisper as he looks away. “I swiped a couple from the reception desk while Carolyn wasn't looking.”

She scoffs, looking up at him through her eyelashes. “You're such a dork.”

The taste of that melting chocolate on their tongues throughout the workday is celestial, dizzy with desire.

Reconciliation

A discarded letter lays flat on a table, the winter breeze blowing at its edges and tempting to take it to the air. Instead, a pair of calloused hands spend the time peeling the skin off russet potatoes. Against the sky stretched thin with dusk, a man sits on his back porch staring hard at the starch on his hands as he scrapes and scrapes. He wonders if she mailed him this letter on a dare or maybe as a thought experiment for her own conscience. He'd read each word and syllable as if it were reverberating through a stereo in his mind. Her 27 years of living juxtaposed his 45 years of hoping they'd realigned in some way. He never thought it would be in February, on the 25th, on a wintry day with a breeze welcoming spring on the horizon. Was she seeking reconciliation? Was she just saying she knew he cared? He doesn't think she could stoop low enough to go through the effort of writing an entire letter, licking it closed, searching for a stamp, and putting it in a mailbox just out of boredom or curiosity. He stares down at the peeled potato in his hand, heart empty, but a bell in his memories rings, signaling a recall to love.

The bells she'd wear in her hair, a father unsure of how to style a young girl's ancestry, and a daughter readily accepting his clumsiness.

He wonders briefly if the bells ever trill for her at times of silence as well.

“Your love changed my life, and will always, for the better.”

He sighs, staring at his bowl of naked yams and potatoes. Setting an example of hesitant care amid the winter chill, he prepares a hot dish of gratin with potatoes, breadcrumbs, grated cheese, and fresh butter. Before eating any himself, he decides to take a container to one of his neighbors, the one always asking how his daughter is. He'll say she visited and made him gratin, a half lie, her care the sweeter motivation.

Antique Shop

He watches her stir her tea with a cinnamon stick across from him, warm Darjeeling in the air. The tea house they're in feels a mix between cold and hot, steam from their respective teacups rising into their faces, chilled silence filling in the spaces. From the moment he'd entered her antique shop a vivid sense of déjà vu enveloped him. Not necessarily in regards to the sylphlike woman before him in her cashmere and heeled boots, but the shop itself, as if it shouldn't have been there in the first place, or perhaps from one of the scattered antiques littering the shelves of her store.

He removes his leather gloves carefully, fingers stiff from the sharp winter air. The scent of leather always reminded him of the city, cool and luxurious, with its dazzling neon lights.

“You're never alone in the city.” The woman says suddenly, elbows resting on the table as she mindlessly stirs her tea.

He hated the taste of Darjeeling, but the woman across from him insisted he'd just never had it prepared right. He purses his lips, giving his cup of tea a quick stir with a cinnamon stick, tapping it against the ceramic.

He had asked her about purchasing the small box he had come across, decorated gold and porcelain, the paint having faded. Something about that box stuck with him even now, as she said it wasn't for sale.

“Is it very valuable?” He asks, watching her take a sip from her teacup, he could see her antique shop across the street, dark and vacant, so out of place.

“That box has lived a life just like you and I, it's rewatched its life more than you or I could ever imagine.”

“That valuable, huh?”

He wondered if perhaps it was a cursed box, some secret hubris he should be thankful this woman was keeping him from, a captive audience under her gaze. He wants to pursue further, he doesn't know why entirely, but that small porcelain box felt important.

The tea room they're in feels more like a steam room, but oddly enough, he'd forgotten what it felt like to meet new people. Would this interaction leave an impact on him in some way?

“It's a mysterious rarity.”

“Do you resent me for having asked?” He laughs a bit, but he's actually being genuine.

She giggles from the lip of her teacup. “That box is just as insecure as you.”

He glances at the faded orchid tattoo on her hand, delicate pink, as she lights herself a cigarette, swirls of smoke dancing in the air.

“I'm too stubborn.” He smiles.

“If you can figure out what motivates you to want that particular box, I'll sell it to you.”

He mulls over her request, bringing his warm cup of tea to his lips for a sip, cinnamon and moss on his tongue, time forgotten for a moment.

“You were right, the tea does taste better with cinnamon.”

The two share a quaint laugh, snowflakes and insights gently hitting the windows.

Almond Paste Girl

There once was a girl whose flesh was made of almond paste, her hair was chocolate cream, adorned with raisins and walnuts, her bones rose-scented. She paraded through life with eyes tinted with jealousy staring her down, she wondered where it stemmed from. Every day crows and pigeons attempted to peck at her sugary skin, when it rained her flesh would turn to an almond mush, her chocolate hair wet and dripping over her face and shoulders.

One day, a boy gives her a wool scarf the color of red roses, he says it's to match her lovely scent, validating her digression and seclusion. She thanks him with flushed embarrassment, allowing him to take a bite from her cheek.

The next day, the same boy gives her a necklace made of jade, the color of tea trees, he asks her if she's perhaps into masochism. She says she's never been assertive, there's a tangled web of bitterness always residing in her, allowing him to take a bite from her shoulder.

The day after that, the boy with the peculiar taste in gifts gives her a silk robe, he also gives her some unwanted advice, “you should stop trying to prove something to everyone else, it's annoying.” She doesn't know what to do with gentleness, if that meant to withhold herself. Instead, she allows him to take a bite from her hand, he eats the whole appendage heartily.

On the last day, with a hollowed-out cheek, a missing shoulder, and a handless arm, the boy gives her an oversized sweater, forced laughter, and a guilt trip. He asks her if she's ever known true heartbreak and she says it's her truth, tears staining the sweetness of her marzipan cheeks. In the end, she allows him to swallow her heart whole. She feels seen for the first time in a long time and only for a microsecond.

Random Thoughts (胡思亂想)

The weather lately has reminded me of this album, rainy early mornings with the smell of the earth in the air, the sky as clear and grey as a nimbus. Faye Wong is one of my favorite musicians, her voice is honestly like the crooning of a lyrical bird calling me back to reality, despite the dreaminess of her songs. Though I love many of her albums, Random Thoughts, released in 1994, is probably my favorite. She feels the most down-to-earth to me, her music feels so hopeful and ethereal, I could sit out in the rain, among the verdant grass and jagged trees, and be lulled by her distinctive voice and dream pop soundscape.

Maybe it's my love of languages and my curiosity of having done this many times in my Japanese studies, but I want to take a moment to talk about the title 胡思亂想. In Cantonese, it's pronounced wu4 si1 lyun6 soeng2 and is an idiom, poetically enough. It means to let one's imagination run wild, which I think perfectly encapsulates this airy glimmer of an album.

The first track, which is also the title track, “胡思亂想 (random thoughts),” feels like a carefree soft stroll. The first line is 想哭想笑 也想跳 (I want to cry, I want to laugh, I want to dance), something about it feels like a flight of fancy, indulging in the small meditations of life. To scream and frown, to think of a loved one, to be in the dark, to think of the world. The song itself feels like floating through the rain of the sky, drunk on want, admiring the flowers. The idea of want repeats so much in the song, wanting to love again, wanting to get drunk, wanting to fly, there's a yearning in the softness of Faye's voice that amplifies this. The track feels as if shouting I want to kiss life, and though there are many beautiful lines, the literary verb 無慮 (worry about nothing) sticks out to me the most, as if being comforted and freed from care. This song feels light and carefree, random thoughts of wanting without guilt or anxiousness, as unabashed as the wind.

The second track on her album, “誓言 (pledge),” feels like a wistful mix between a cascade of dreamy texture and traditional flutes accompanied by Faye's breathy vocals. The song itself feels very bittersweet and open, denoting a change with the first line being, 我以為 永遠可以這樣相對 (I thought we could always face each other like this), a relationship so sincere you don't care about anything else, despite the unpaved road ahead, fueled on the pledge of love, the promise of an oath. The song expresses that initial peace well, the gentleness of the melody like an understanding shoulder to lean on, tired and wanting to stop, but for some reason you can't stop, love isn't a light switch easily turned on and off, after all. The song's honesty is admirable, realizing that one day you won't be able to catch sight of that love, still waiting for that unspoken pledge of absolute.

Maybe it's the dying romantic in me, but I can empathize with the concept of loving despite the fatigue in your heart, the line 把我的 心交給你來安慰 (I give you my heart to comfort me), probably sounds selfish, but I don't think so. We go into love at least somewhat selfish; we want comfort, we want love, we want understanding, if all we wanted was to love and comfort, we could do that with ease, most people wouldn't shy away from being adored, but it's more than just giving, it's receiving, a grasping back and forth through the shivering uncertainty. 別以為執著的心就不會被碰碎 (don't think that a persistent heart won't be shattered), it doesn't matter how hard you love someone, people come and go out of our lives all the time, like a river the current is always changing, you're always finding new shiny rocks and coming across all different types of freshwater fish. 別以為 我真的無所謂 (don't think I really don't care), people express emotions in different ways, just because something didn't work out doesn't necessarily mean it wasn't cherished. I believe each love we experience leaves a lasting indent in our hearts, shaped and touched by each person we meet, even if the pledges weren't kept.

Her tenth track, “回憶是紅色天空 (reminiscence is a red sky),” feels like an iridescent day, aching memories emphasized by warm violins drifting along a ballad melody. The first line, 難記起思憶掛念是何年 (it's hard to remember the year of nostalgia and longing) in and of itself feels like a sacred memory, the pain of loss sounds so delicate, Faye's voice like a whisper. I've said many goodbyes in my life to many people I've loved, people are always coming and going, leaving and staying, I've noticed that more than missing the actual person, I miss the memories and feelings associated with that person, I miss how they made me feel, their words, they stay in my heart and stick out in my dreams, mosaics of the past, 是你的叮囑似斷續難言 (it's your advice that seems intermittently indescribable).

Red colors this song like cherries, Faye sings of the cold emptiness of faded love, the recollection of a red scarf against a red sky, kissed goodbye, emotions fading with the light of the sun, a love having ended. Some people associate certain things with memories, an orange might remind you of your best friend's smile, or the smell of coffee might remind you of that one coworker who always asks how your weekend was. A roseate sunset brings back the memories of love, 又見那天色染著夕陽紅 (I see that day dyed with sunset red again), 而回憶不覺的暗湧 (and the unconscious surge of memories), suddenly reminded of the memories, doubting our hearts.

Speaking from personal experience, most people long to move on to the point we no longer recognize who we once kept in our heart, as cruel as it might sound, that distant memory tells us we've healed, bit back the cries of pain, trudged through the rehashing memories, grew as a person, 然而沒法再認出你 (but I can't recognize you anymore), 人在今天怎麼一個面容 (what kind of face does a person have today), to think it's been so long I don't remember your face anymore, what your smile looked like, how you laughed, the sparkle in your eyes, the curve of your cupid's bow, or the shape of your nose. A line that stuck out to me was 像你於身邊熾熱地重逄 (like you pounding passionately around me), the recollection of someone cherished can blaze around us, caught in the fire of what they meant to us, burnt by the idea of our hearts, and the memories of our passion.

The track feels so bittersweet with heavy emphasis on the sweetness, yearning drips from the instrumentals, there's oddly enough a peaceful feeling to the song, the idea of accepting the end. The repeating last lines, 當繽紛的晚霞漸凍 (when the colorful sunset gradually freezes), 天真的想法告終 (the naïve idea came to an end), emphasize this sentimentality with beautiful tenderness, caught in the middle of a fond memory, the remembrance ends with the sunset; reflective, but not heartbroken.