gravel

When we were younger, we sat by the roads, knees like suns before our faces as we watched the cars go past. We used to come up with dreams, colorful tales concerning the passing cars; that proton sagas were made of crushed milo tins, car tires were made of licorice. The girl in the passing white Mercedes was a princess in disguise.

And then we would secretly, guiltily creep those chosen cars at night. Braving the parents, the hard heavy hands, the police at our backs as we scratched, scratched away at the car paint, hoping to spot a fleck, a spot, an idea of that bright green paint on milo tins. And we would get bored and collect gravel bits and pitch them at one another. The gravel would cut our hands, but it wouldn’t matter. We would gather more in a second. And soon, the sound of laughing boys rise up the heartland flats even as the sun begins to rise.

We go on to secondary school, jcs. Ns. To work and start building families of our own. And gradually, we drifted apart, the closeness became passing words, the claps on the backs became smiles. And then. Nothing. The gravel remains dead at our feet. The scabs on our hands remain uncovered.

I am now married to that princess in the white Mercedes and now I know that proton sagas are not made of milo tins. I have a job now, an office job and if I play it right, maybe I’ll get an increase at the year’s end. The old flats where we used to play are now gone, replaced by yellow new condominiums. I have a car of my own, and two kids, one boy, one girl. We can make ends meet.

And still, when I remember, I make it a point to stoop and gather some gravel, more stones now in my bigger hands. And I would smile, ignoring the small cuts on my hands as I throw them into the distance; at the friends I used to have. At the small boys in white singlets and buzz cuts laughing and dodging between the early morning cars, long gone.

last night

i dreamed we kissed
and everyone was watching but
we
didn't
care.

When I killed Ron, I lost myself. For the longest time, I stared at him on the floor, lying with glazed eyes, throat still retching to get rid of the blood filling it. He was dead, but his body didn’t know it, didn’t want to know it yet. I stared at him, my brother, my best mate, and said goodbyes in my head as his fingers twitched, causing his nails to click on the linoleum and like his throat, finally still. My greatest friend, my confidant, my lover, he died without making a sound. I caught my tears with my hands and sleeves before they hit the floor, and dropped the knife in the bag. I strip, stuff the clothes in a ziplock bag and zip it up. I toss it inside my duffel with the knife. I change into some clothes I find in his wardrobe; jeans, a black t-shirt with “I’m sorry, you must have mistaken me for someone who gives a shit” printed in bold white on the front, a pair of his old sneakers. Adidas. He never wore Nike. No socks, no briefs. I look in his mirror, see a murderer, shoulder my duffel and walk out. At his door, I hesitate and take a last look at him, my Ron. How unglamorous, I think absurdly, to be found the next morning in some obscene swastika of stiff limbs with your blood setting around your head like old wine. I gag, and in reflex, squeeze my eyes shut and I see not my best friend, but a horned lycan, one who sets off every full moon to hunt. I remember the newspaper articles about missing children and couples from the park. It’s gray fur is matted, it’s eyes are misted. My friend’s eyes are misted. No it is not him. Not him. He didn’t know. He could not have known. He would wake up after every full moon, yawn, dress and shuffle off to school, thinking about fucking my girlfriend, never knowing what he had done the night before, the blood I can see on his hands and mouth and chest, that just get more and more each time. He never knew, he never knew, he never knew. I didn’t know. I’d see him every day and the fur gets thicker and the blood gets more, and I never realized. He never realized. I open my eyes convulsively and run down the hall. At the landing, I remember and run back up to his apartment to wipe the doorknobs with my handkerchief. It is like watching someone else do these things. The part of the hanky I use is bloody and leaves a red sticky film on the knob. I find a clean spot and redo. My hands shake. When I’m done cleaning and running back down, I trip and fall on my face. The neighbors give me weird looks and puzzled smiles. I want to shout and grab them by their collars and shake their pathetic polite faces, and tell them I just murdered my best friend, my darling Ron, he’s dead upstairs on the floor of his living room with a hole in his neck so big I could put my fist down his throat, but instead I smile at them, help Mrs. Nguyen pick up her fruits and apologize for the fright that I caused. I run out the door and down the street and far away until I can’t tell where I am anymore. My chest burns. I hope I am dying. I throw my bag down, bury my face in my handkerchief, taste Ron’s crispy blood drying to flakes on it and that’s when I started hitching, big fat hitching sobs and like a tide that couldn’t be stopped, I sat there with my hands in my face and cried for seven days and seven nights.

lunch

it feels strange,
looking at you over our bowls of noodles
as you deployed your cynicism once again
when i described my friend's relationships,
my relationships: like water.

it is as though i'm asking for your approval.

and then what, you said; and then what?
with that amazing impish grin that makes me wonder
if a little tooth will suddenly unblemish
the whole picture at the corner of your mouth
and make the world end.

so he fucks her, and then he fucks her again
and then what? there's nothing more to it.

you place a fish slice in your mouth and chew.
i sit there and play with my chopsticks in my soup
swirling it around: my pangaea of sediment breaks and dissolves
into continents.

so we could hold hands and we snuggle and we sit,
drinking your sour plum tea, and i think, maybe
we don't really need to bother if there is an 'and then what'
maybe there doesn't have to be an 'and then what'
cos this is all there is, and to me, it is enough.
but of course i keep quiet and smile
and watch you smile, feeling happy that you're happy.
i wonder what would have happened if i had leaned over then,
spontaneous and not thinking like i am wont to do,
and just kissed you.
you'll probably taste
just like the tea: deep orange, a ridiculous mix of sweet and sour,
so awful but strangely wonderful all the same.

but i didn't,

and so we sit
with our cooling bowls and half empty drinks
(alright, mine was empty already, i'm sorry);
my soup developing an atmosphere of its own,
cumulus clouds of stock included,
and i hope for an hour at least, you didn't think
'and then what' thoughts of me.

and truthfully, that is enough for me.