Song of Songs

It was Moving Day. She attempted to fill the space in her white new apartment. Strange city, strange country. Even the air felt strange to her nostrils. When the last of the boxes were opened and when she had set up the last of the chinaware on the countertop, she was drained. She sat by the windowsill looking out at the bold blue sky violated by the stark red skyscrapers.

The void pained her. She remembered another lifetime. When, together, they had dreamt of Solomon’s vineyards.

Come, my beloved, let us go forth into the field; let us lodge in the villages.

He had earnestly appealed to her. One dark night when they laid together on the floor, bodies fused together, fingers intertwined, his breath moist on her bare neck, he whispered these verses to her.

Let us get up early to the vineyards; let us see if the vine flourish, whether the tender grape appear, and the pomegranates bud forth: there will I give thee my love.

He continued to quote Solomon. She laughed and kissed his cheek. He placed her palm over his heart. His quibbles and her promises. His riddles and her laughter. Their dreams and the life they wanted. But that seemed another lifetime ago. When, together, they dreamt of Solomon’s vineyards.

She continued to dream of the vineyards one lone night when the fog refused to let her see him go. The same lone night when the headlights refused to pierce through the winter air. The same lone night when the fog settled on those vineyards. And on his motorcycle’s path. She sang the songs of Solomon while he skidded past the sharp curves he didn’t see. And when the last heartbeat left his body, she sang unknown:

Return, return, O Solomon; return, return, that I may look upon thee.

Sonata

Musky. She thought to herself as she took one more whiff off the tester on the shelf. He is going to love this. She paid for the aftershave and walked out of the store. It was his birthday today and she wanted to do something nice for him. But considering the distance between them and the trouble with clashing schedules, they weren’t meeting this time.

It was windy and while she struggled with her wild messy hair, she yearned for a steaming cup of coffee and uninterrupted internet. Sitting by the window watching the people walk past, she blogged as she always did. All her thoughts focused on him and how she was happy being with him. Four blissful years, she wrote and paused for a sip of Mocha. It couldn’t get better than this… I am so glad he was born. I will not want anyone more than him. She continued in this confident vein.

A new visitor on her blog has commented on her previous entry. She read the name and her heart stopped. A pimply shy face, courteous silent encounters, Piano lessons, church, corridors. It came to her in waves. From a distant lifetime she could barely remember. She was a child back then. So was he.

She heard him play Moonlight Sonata. She remembered her own poorer, plainer, transposed rendition. Then she wept over coffee. She wept for the beauty. She wept for the loss. She wept for the helpless passage of time.

It had begun to grow dark outside. It was raining now.

Walking in the rain, she remembered his timid stuttered voice reading passages from the Count of Monte Christo. Seated alone in the library, they shared books, read the same pages, he struggled with his shyness. She pored over equations and formulae while he seemed lost in his secret little world. They shared the same pew in church. When once she scraped her knees, he helped her up and tended to her wound and comforted her. He looked out for her when the nasty class-bully gave her a hard time. He faded away when she was safe and happy. He played the Moonlight Sonata for her one afternoon. And then he was gone.

And tonight, two decades later, he comes by as a visitor. With her Moonlight Sonata replayed. With rain pouring down on her Mocha. With wet memories dripping of nostalgia and adolescence. Bringing an unknown pain from somewhere long ago.

Drenched, teary and exhausted, she tossed the musky aftershave into the trash can.