Work Text:
1. Stranger
On the day she met him, it snowed; the last snow of the season.
Spring snow, as it’s called, was generally unwelcomed by people around her. Winter had been harsh in this city, always been harsh, and when the spring came bringing the warmth back, the traces of winter, the one or two snowing days in the first few weeks of the spring, spoiled the cheery picture of rose-colored March.
He said it wasn’t a coincidence. He said it was a deliberate, carefully calculated approach. Fate, he said, while he believed in it, didn’t do much on that day. However, later he confessed, the first time he caught the sight of her had been by chance.
By chance she stood in the city’s narrow alley, facing an unfinished mural, which was splatters of colors, bright vermillion and blue and burnt ochre. The black of her tidily tied hair and long padding in contrast with the white snow beneath her worn-out leather boots. The juxtaposition of her pale face and the rosy hue of her small nose made her look like an oversaturated picture. He said he was astonished that someone would stand in the middle of the wintry breeze, wrestle with the brush and paint in an unlikely area where people would draw a mural. He said she was like a warrior, fierce and proud, the passion every time the tip of her brush struck the wall.
The truth, she was freezing at that noon. Holding the brush with gloves on wasn’t the most comfortable thing, so she’d removed them when she painted. The owner of the wall, a middle-aged lady with a big smile who had a big idea of turning her building into an orphanage, had stated that she could work on the mural when the temperature got warmer. A kind offer but, poor as she was, she needed the payment as soon as possible. Winter in this city was harsh, and she had electricity and water to pay.
Artists are always poor, he said between laughter and cigarette smoke. She folded the frayed edge of her cashmere sweater in her fingers, silently admiring the sound of his laughter. Something about clear yellowish shade mingling with tobacco scent and faint mint. Be careful with strangers. Her mother used to say that sentence when she was young, a long time ago. A stranger with luminous laughter is indeed more dangerous than a stranger with a grim mouth. He’d make you fall. He’d make you feel things that are safe, reassuring gazes. Something comforting, numbing your senses. Making you see that the world is still beautiful.
And she was falling, at that moment. Not in love, but in the way her mother had described: drowning in the kind gaze and luminous laughing voice. Spring snow sprayed the steps of her tiny porch. Confetti falling over an ongoing show.
He introduced himself as a person who does music. I make music and sometimes perform. She had met someone like him, many times. Those who loved their black leather jacket and sleeveless t-shirt and inscribed words or pictures on their bodies. Those who valued freedom and imagination, who were always up all night cuddling with guitar or midi or paper and pen. She knew them well, the artists who did their arts in the form of lyrics and melodies; and she knew it well, from that brief time, he’s one of them.
On that day when he caught up with her steps as she walked home from the convenience store, he wore his favorite (she would find it out later) black leather jacket over an ash-colored turtleneck, looking so good on him. Snowflakes rested on his hair, which fell just around the nape of his neck. There was something about his face, sharp features of his eyes and nose and mouth, high cheekbones and soft shadows under his brows. They looked like rough sketches she had in her sketchbook.
Pardon me, I saw you the other day then I wrote a song. Would you listen, please?
He was polite when he stopped her, as if asking for the direction. Never anticipated such a question, she was quite taken aback. Her mother’s words ringing in her ears, an alarm being set off in her mind--all shushed into silence when he offered a smile.
A stranger with a sunshine smile. What a fitting image with the coming steps of the spring.
So they sat on her tiny porch. So she put earphones in her ears. So she listened to his song, rhythm, and beats. His singing voice, tinged with white and lilac and reddish rose madder.
To think that someone would write her a song. To think that a stranger would do that. What was he thinking when he carved those words, latched them onto the music? She thought of the faces she drew on paper, on canvas, on the wall. She thought of the times when she sat at cafes or parks or subways, and all the strangers she immortalized in the stroke of her pen.
She understood.
Thank you, she said. You make good music.
The spring snow melted on the tip of her syllables.
2. Artist
The exhibition in the center of the city was a yearly event. She loved strolling around the gallery, devouring the abundance of shapes and colors. It was a habit, even years before she started to take part as a contributing artist. Her youth was delightful chaos of flunked classes and oil thinner stenches and gallery quiet noises.
She stood in front of a painting of a pile of tiny souls in a glass case. The rough strokes of brushes, the bold colors, she knew them all too well. That painting was a work of a respected friend. They used to hang out and dated for a while. They used to believe that they were meant to be. With him, she was free. Hours of talking about the history of art movements in Paris to choosing the brands of oil paint. She used to think he was her soul mate, that even if they weren’t together, they would still be soul mates.
That was not the case. People said there are many kinds of love. Ancient Greek philosophers categorized it into eight. One of them is called eros–romantic love, burning with passion and lust. Theirs was surely a romantic relationship, but ironically that romance alone couldn’t satisfy her thirst.
It burnt too quickly, it went cold too easily.
That friend remained as someone who she admired for his creations, but she didn’t want to be together. They didn’t meet or talk much after they parted, only occasional polite greetings when they happened to bump on each other at an event like this.
It’s an eerie one.
That light comment came from a man who appeared beside her. Even without looking, she knew the owner of that voice, which since she heard it she’d grown accustomed to over the years. That stranger who wrote her a song, now had become someone she enjoyed his company.
It happened almost instantly. Every time he finished a song, he would go to see her, ask her opinion. Every time he did that, she anticipated his curious, worried face, just like a child waiting for approval. Then, she started to draw him. On the sketchbook, on canvas, in the back of her mind. She would show those tiny sketches or large paintings to him. So, that’s how I look in your eyes. The first time she gave him her sketch, he smiled in adoration. I think I look quite good. She realized, at some point, they were mirroring each other.
It was comforting, being with him. He didn’t mind the oil stench or her stained fingers and clothes. When she talked about Monet or Picasso or Magritte, he would listen with great interest, all bright eyes and thoughtful face. She liked sitting on the sofa of his small studio which always smelled of sandalwood and faint mint, watching his back while he faced the monitor and the keyboard, headphones covering his ears, soft hum of an unshaped lullaby on his lips. She would listen to his enthusiastic talk about chords or words, while she traced the sketch of his figure on paper. Those musicians with foreign names from foreign countries. She had always liked music. It was wonderful how words and melodies could represent anything: columns of emotions, making you smile or weep. Just like paintings. Just like any form of art.
She liked to paint his music, converting them into colors and shapes. She saw his music: Prussian blue and cadmium scarlet for songs with sad undertones, crimson and black onyx for those with sultry beats, cerulean and lemon yellow for happier ones. You have, what is it called? Synthetic? he commented after she talked about it.
Synesthesia, she corrected. Ah, yes. Synesthesia. He touched the tip of her nose, lightly, as if she were a fragile glass jar. His fingers lingered for a moment, ghosting over the skin of her cheek. She held her breath, the weight of their closeness filled the space between guitar and keyboard and computer. It wasn’t burdensome, the proximity. Rather, it was comforting. She was surprised how easy it was to let him touch her face, to rest her head against his broad shoulder. There were no expectations or demands. Only them, two artists living in the same world, breathing in the sandalwood and mint air.
3. Ghost
Isn’t that your ex’s work?
The pitiful souls in the painting stared back with their ugly eyes. She turned her head and found him standing in a crumpled white shirt, its sleeves rolled up to elbows, and washed-up jeans. What a difference, she thought. Between those abominations drawn on canvas and this person with a crisp voice and glittering smile, yet both of them were arts.
Yeah. It’s really good.
He patted her head softly, light reassuring taps. Yours a thousand times better, he whispered in her ears, sending a shiver to the back of her neck.
Do you still think of him? he asked carefully. She stilled for a while, but she knew the answer almost immediately.
Not really.
His fingers found hers, calluses met calluses. She marveled at how her fingers fitted comfortably in his, in the most casual way. She liked his nonchalant smile when he guided her, walking through walls of paintings staring down at them.
Later, when they nestled at his studio like usual, he asked her to listen to a new piece he just finished.
It was grey. Storm grey. It tasted like smoke, bitter on the tip of her tongue.
When the music ended, she threw her arms around his sturdy body. Her palms pressed on the small of his back. She rested her head on his chest, listening to the steady beats. She understood too well, the music and the color, the taste of bitter fumes.
Does it still hurt? Her question was a mere whisper, but he buried his head deeper in her hair.
It’s just a song. It means nothing.
Liar. This one is not just a song.
He sighed, the air from his mouth blew the strands of her hair. It never goes away.
Then he told her the story about two women. The first woman was someone who gave birth to him, all the disagreements concerning his rebellious teenage years and his music. The second woman was just three or four years ago, those talks about marriage, future, and workload.
There were also broken dreams and futures, the loneliness he collected out of nowhere. The abyss in his brain, invisible cancer devouring his soul. He told her about the pills and the inks. The needles and tattoo parlors. Cigarettes and alcohol. All those coping mechanisms, he found later that his music patched his wounds the best.
It will go away. All things go away.
She ran her fingers over the inking on his arms. Chain of words and figures inscribed on bare skin. He tossed his shirt off, letting her see all of his tattoos, letting her see the ghosts of his soul.
They lay down together on the floor, listening to the rhythm of the metronome, under the feeble light of the dying fluorescent lamp hanging from the ceiling. The breeze from the air conditioner kept them cool from the humid summer, from the heat of uncertain emotion. Hours had gone by, her eyes rested on his sleeping face. She studied his anatomy, long limbs attached to a firm torso, the contour of his stomach. An art. Art was supposed to make you feel something. An ocean full of hurricanes. A tranquil lake. A field filled with sunshine.
He was all those emotions, feelings bottled inside an earthly body. She thought about his ghosts, each tattoo he stamped on his skin. They would never be purified, just like the inking, forever marking his body, claiming his soul.
When she went to the bathroom later, she caught her reflection on the surface of the foggy mirror. Dull skin and dark irises in glistening eyes, lips pressed into a downturn arch. Her hair had grown long, almost reached her back; dark tendrils tangled. She splashed cold water onto her face, knocked her senses back.
Her ghost was herself, the reflection in the mirror. Her ghost was years of not calling her mother or going home. Her ghost was the unread messages in the inbox of her phone, worried voice mails, lines of numbers she had blocked. Her ghost was wandering aimlessly in the middle of the night, trying to get the city to understand her hollowing soul. Her ghost was smiling, pretending, deceiving the world that her life was alright, when in fact she was crumbling down due to the pressure of her ideals. Her ghost was clinging like clothes, which she had disposed of but then she found that she still needed them.
She walked out of the bathroom. Her ghost followed behind.
Later, she took her phone and dialed a number. The monotone tune greeted her. Then a tired voice. That voice turned into shrills and sobs when she started to speak.
Hello, Mom. It’s me.
4. Everything
People said they were lovers.
She would rebut, No, we’re not what you think.
It was true because they never talked about being lovers. But sometimes, sometimes when they craved the warmth of a person, they would seek each other. She loved him, she was sure, but it didn’t feel like anything she felt before.
This love didn’t burn easily. This love was listening to his songs while she smeared paints on canvas. Or when they held hands. Or when they curled together on the sofa, with her head on his chest and his chin rested on the top of her head. Or when they fell asleep side by side and then woke up to each other’s sleepy faces.
He said she was his muse. The center of his fascination and inspiration. From that day of freezing winter when she painted a wall, most of his songs stemmed from her existence. He’d drawn darker music from her ghost, sunnier one from her bright eyes. He’d written about them, about love, and everything in between. She’d done the same, painted based on his luminous laughter or the markings of his soul. He was her muse since that day of spring snow fell on the top of his raven hair.
Perhaps, they were really lovers. After all, lovers meant people who love each other.
But she wanted more. He was more. It was an insult to plainly label him as her lover.
What am I to you? One day, she asked him. Not as a demand, but a mere curiosity.
He put his cigarette down, stubbed it into the concrete floor of her porch. He only smoked when he was outside. Lately, he’d tried to cut it down. Once a week, he said. She didn’t make him try to quit, even though she didn’t like the suffocating smell of the smoke. She liked it more when he smelled of sandalwood and mint.
Someone I want to write about forever.
She giggled at his answer. Poet, she thought. Of course, he was a poet; all the words he stitched together.
A best friend.
Comfortable exchange of talks, warm hugs, the ears that were always listening.
A muse.
Sheets of paper, canvas mounted on the easel, color pigments, the steady beats of the metronome. Songs he played on piano or guitar. The rough sketches in her sketchbook.
A lover.
Missing each other, sleeping in his arms, understanding gazes, undemanding kisses. The closeness of their breathing.
You. Just you. Everything pulsed into one entity. All the colors and the music. All the words and chords. The universe and all its matters.
His eyes searched hers, trapped them in the depth of his irises. No longer were the steady beats of a metronome. Her heartbeats running around in excitement. Everything. He was all of them. The muse, the best friend, the lover.
Ancient Greek philosophers said that there are many forms of love. That eros differs from philia, differs from agape, mania, philautia, storge, ludus, or pragma. Hers was not any of them, but every single one of them. Everything that defined love applied to her feelings about him. Everything.
Everything.