Her finger’s been circling her knee for twenty minutes now. Jingle Bell Rock hummed softly from the speaker.
“What do you want for dinner?” he asks, tossing a tennis ball into an Adidas box labelled
‘Box of Chaos.’
“I’ll just have carrot soup,” she murmured, now chewing at her nails.
He kept scanning drawers for little things, placing each one in the box, as orange rays spilled gently into the room.
“Have you ever talked to a disabled person?” she asked suddenly, eyes locked on him.
“What? Talked? I guess, but not like… a real conversation,” he replied, rummaging through his suitcase.
“I’ve always wanted to,” she said, moving on to crunching into an oatmeal cookie. “Like someone with a missing leg.”
He glanced at her once, twice. “What’s going on?”
“I just want to understand. How they accepted it. The missing leg.”
She sits down next to his box.
“Well, grief has stages,” he offered, dusting off an old hoodie.
“Yeah, sure. But how does the brain just… forget something that has always been there? How would it know? You can only convince your conscience, not your wiring.” He opened a plastic bag full of seashells. She handed him a bottle of disinfectant, like a nurse in surgery. “Like, if they want to walk, the brain will still send signals to those nerves that were connected.”
He wiped a caramel-coloured shell carefully, then jokingly sprayed the disinfectant at her face. She slapped his arm, snatching the bottle back.
“I’m no doctor, Monica. Why is this eating you today?”
She grinned, dodging as he playfully tried to bite her hand.
“I think it’ll help me understand life. Legs and people; both things that have always been. How can you process that cut in connections? They’ve always been there, walking with you, walking for you, walking till you can run. Letting you move around while bearing all your weight.”
He removed his glasses and looked into her eyes.
“Just call her already. It’s morning there. She’s not ghosting you.”
She showed him a photo on her phone. “She changed her profile pic. I’m not in it anymore. She used to call me ‘homie’ and ‘one of her best friends.’ Now, it’s been a week since she left the country and she hasn’t even called me once!”
He reached for his phone and dialed. She yelled, jumping onto him to end the call mid-ring.
She gave him a quick scowl before poking at a cookie tin on his table.
“You never liked oatmeal cookies?” she muttered, shaking the tin.
“It’s not mine.”
The music from the speaker grew faint.
“Ooh. Is this the parting box she gave you?”
“You already know that. Why do you have to be dramatic?” he said, trying to pull it out of her hands.
“Romance without drama is like Tom without Jerry. Just sad.”
“And yet you’ve never had your own.”
Her smile faltered. She tilted her head, eyes narrowing with mock offence.
“Low blow, sir.”
“Okay, okay—my bad. Now put it on top of the books,” he says, flicking her hair playfully.
“No, I wanna see the ‘cookies’ inside,” she blushed.
She opened the lid while he tried to process what cookies she could have possibly been talking about.
“Scrunchie and a hair clip, huh? She could’ve left more.”
He snatched the tin away, eyebrows knotted.
“Could you not? My train’s in four hours.”
She backed off, sitting on the table and smiling while he placed the tin into a bigger box.
She started handing him things left on his table, commenting on each one. The chilly breeze made him shiver.
“So, now that it’s all over. Do you ever wish you’d never met her?”
Looking at her foxy smile, he threw a pillow at her.
“Go make your carrot soup! You’re not helping anyway; you’re just making this harder so just let me pack.”
She slowly backed off and leaned on the closed door, hands up in the air, like a silent painting. Not uttering a word.
“Okay, I’m sorry. It’s just that packing is a bit boring…that’s why I talk,” she said.
Silent packing continues. She stretched her arm out, reaching for the big box.
“You know, I read this question the other day,” Her words softened, “Which do you think is harder to suffer? Grief, or not loving anyone enough for grief?”
He stopped to look at her, eyes heavy.
“What makes you think I could ever answer that? You yap too much.” He exhaled, “It’s nearly sunset, let’s go for a walk.” He grabbed a half-empty box of cigarettes and made his way to the door.
They walked without a single word. Silence stitched with smoke. She walked in short, restless bursts – like her thoughts had nowhere to land.
“You’re always quiet in public,” she said, walking backwards, facing him. “I never know if you’re daydreaming or just questioning your existence.”
“Ouch.”
“Okayyy. I’m sorry. Come on,” she jumped around him with a mock frown.
He smiled. “You know, I read something too. This guy wrote, ‘Sometimes, I avoid looking at people’s eyes. It scares me to see things they’re trying to hide. Or worse… reveal the things I try to hide.’”
“Deep.” she whispered, bumping their shoulders.
He passed her the last inch of his cigarette.
“You know,” she said, eyes on the clouds, “the worst way to miss someone is to have them sitting next to you and know you can never have them.”
He blinked. “Where’d you read that?”
“I didn’t.” she said under her breath, looking up into his glasses.
