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Baby, though I’ve closed my eyes
I know who you pretend I am
I know who you pretend I am
Victory never tasted this way before.
Usually it was a sweet delicacy, sugar-like and heavenly on his tongue, like the lebkuchen he’d tasted back in Germany, back when he was very young and Christmas was still sweet, full of presents and smiling faces and the wrapped up boxes containing the very gifts he had been dreaming.
This was another matter entirely. Triumph. A sense of power of knowing the person you supported had won, to rule the country, to dictate its future and to help the people who needed it the most—and, least of all, that feeling of euphoria warming up in his heart, a sign of success he’d been clawing at since the very day he was born—but this time it was accompanied by something else.
A pile of vomit rose up in his throat, and he fought back the will to throw up. To do so would be unseemly, this was a public place, his reputation might as well be tarnished fully; but how could he think, how could he even look around at anywhere but his phone, when that goddamned screen showed an expected text he’d been dying to know the contents of?
He gritted his teeth, feeling himself losing that thin thread of control he’d kept knotted everyday, trying his hardest to not let all hell break loose, but Jesus Christ, he cursed through his breath— what a fantastic way to end the day, no?, he thought and sipped his coffee from the table; now cold and bitter after he’d ignored it for so long.
It’s a divorce, Tom, the text bore painfully into his mind, then just as he was preparing to gather up a sensible reply, anything to divert her mind away from this awfully cruel proposition, the next one came—an additional knife twisting and ripping his guts. It’s final.
Goodness gracious , whatever is he supposed to do now?
He stood up and packed his things into his black bag, in a neat, precise way—just the way he liked it, and when he felt it again, that feral need to force out every food he had left in his bowel, he loosened his tie for a little before taking long strides to exit the café .
To think about that later would be enough. Now, he had work to do.
—
Three months later
Fucking hell.
You cursed silently in your mind, wishing yourself had been anywhere but in this place—you’d drifted off to sleep for only a few minutes, yet you found yourself far away from your usual stop. The train had long since continued its journey, and you had little to no idea about the place and the tall, skyscraper buildings outside the window. In all their glory and basked in the shining sun, you had only one thing clouding your brain: capitalism.
The center of the city, you realized a while after. You’d rarely come here, only once or twice for your whole life, when you were a kid as well—but now, looking back at it, you might have been a bit biased at choosing the environment you liked the most. You could hardly enjoy the countryside, it wasn’t your thing, and the center of a city was a tourist attraction, some kind of place where wealthy people meet each other for fun, so you had always stayed as far away from the heart of the city as possible.
When the train came to a halt, you heaved a sigh of relief and jolted outside, immediately facing the scorching hot weather and that thick, polluted air filling your nostrils. You held your breath for a moment to steady yourself, and unbuttoned the first button of your blouse to not feel so suffocated. The center of the city always, always had the worst quality of air, you grimaced in your mind.
Alright, you thought, let’s just explore a little bit. You strode towards the direction of an exit gate and pushed your way through it, sweat already collecting itself on your forehead. Drying it off using the edge of your sleeve, you glanced at the cabs section, but turned your brain against the idea.
To call one would give your wallet a devastating fall, and you’d barely have enough after only surviving on caramel lattes at your favorite local place. Perhaps walking wasn’t too bad. It wouldn’t be, you scoffed, had the environment been tidier. You’d always enjoyed walking, though this Gotham hell of a city only seemed to not support that hobby of yours.
You inhaled deeply as your gaze caught sight of a coffee shop, and the itch in your throat after not being showered with water tingled, so although you’ve almost maxed your budget today, you were still going to get that iced coffee no matter what.
Crossing the street was one experience, however, entering the café with no awareness of your surroundings was another thing entirely. Of course it all felt new—you’d never been here before, and you hoped in your deepest mind that the price here wasn’t as high as you thought it’d be.
The coffee shop wasn’t full, but it wasn’t nearly empty, either. Just enough to give you the knowledge that the coffee was good. You strode to the cashier and looked up at the menu, screen displaying various types of drinks and some variety of snacks.
Well, you breathed through your mouth seeing the price, what did I expect?
Not exactly sky-high, but not as cheap as your salary would like to see fit.
You sighed and waited your turn anxiously to be dealt with the barista, and when you came up, you ordered the usual caramel latte, with the whopping price of forty six thousand rupiah—you were too used to twenty five thousand that you were a bit shocked—and watched your order being made. When it was finished, you paid and took your coffee in hand.
To stay, of course. Like hell you would go back after craning your neck sleeping for twenty minutes. You searched the area to find a good spot, and you caught one in the corner, away from the windows and the gazes of strangers, so you decided to go there.
Your phone rang, almost startling you as you walked. Luckily you always had it on silent, being a corporate worker and all that, and it was only a small buzz in your skirt’s pocket. When you pulled it out and saw a familiar name calling you, you frowned.
You’d broken up with him, and he still had the audacity to call you?
If you hated anything more than this city you were living in, it would be your too clingy, son of a bitch ex-boyfriend.
Swiping red, you chose to ignore him. It would be better if he’d just leave you alone. You had no interest in dating with corporate workers anymore, they were either workaholics or alcoholics. Sometimes, in most cases, both.
You weren’t watching your steps, too busy having your own inner monologue, when you collided against something solid, rock-hard, and you looked up briefly to see if you’d walked long enough time for you to bump into a wall, and your coffee was splattered—you were so ready to hide yourself and be embarrassed forever; but instead of meeting a wall, your eyes clashed against someone’s brown ones, and you blinked.
He seemed familiar. Did you know him from somewhere?
“I’m terribly sorry—” he rushed past his words, his gaze glancing briefly on your front, and then you realized; your blouse had a stain of brown, a shade of that ugly color, from the collision probably when your coffee splashed. “Are you okay?” He continued.
The first thing you noticed from him was his voice. His deep, almost soothing voice, roughly raspy but weirdly soft. It had an edge to it, like even if he finished a sentence, you knew you’d long to always hear him say something else.
And the second thing was his frown. He looked… old. Well, not that old, the kind of man you’d encounter at your job, probably in his early or middle forties. And he was a businessman. The tie and two-piece suit confirmed it. Besides, his appearance was too… neat, to not be a corporate worker.
“Miss? Are you alright?” He said, snapping you back from your mind.
You blinked again and hurriedly gathered a reply, “ah, I’m fine, sir. I—” then you saw it, that stain also on his white shirt, and your face turned red. It wasn’t even embarrassment anymore, it was shame. “Your shirt—”
“Ah, it’s nothing. Yours is stained as well,” he waved his hand to brush off the matter, and looked sadly apologetic when he continued, “I’m terribly sorry, I wasn’t looking when I…”
“It’s okay, I didn’t watch my steps either,” you shrugged, and bit your lips. Dang it , you thought, this man is handsome as hell. “I’m sorry, can I compensate you in any way for the shirt? It’s my fault.”
When he smiled, your heart fluttered, seeing the dimples on his cheeks and how sweet his smile was. You couldn’t help but fixate your gaze on him, on his eyes, how the wrinkles around those looked like, but you didn’t find it weird, no, in fact—it was one of the things that you were drawn to, besides his voice.
“No need. Are you in a rush? I have some spare clothes in my bag if you’d like.” He said, putting his hand in his pocket. He seemed oddly fine with someone who had coffee stains on his perfectly fine white shirt.
You held back your urge to burst out a sense of squeal and kept your voice low as you replied, “I’m… I’m not, actually. But I don’t think I’ll be back here for a while to, uhm, return your clothes.”
“Oh, are you a newcomer? You seem like you work here.”
What’s that supposed to mean?
“No, I’m just from a different part of the city.” You shook your head.
“Ah, I see,” he nodded a few times. “Well, that’s alright, anyway, you won’t need to return it. It’s just in my bag over there.” He pointed to the direction of a two-chair table near the window, and slightly tilted his head as he spoke.
You craned your neck towards it and hesitated for a bit. Spare clothes? It wasn’t a bad idea, he said you wouldn’t need to return it, and the embarrassment of commuting back home with stained blouse would be too much for you to handle, but, it was still a stranger’s clothes, however handsome he was. You didn’t know if you could trust him…
“Sure,” you said. Why not, right?
He grinned and began walking. You instantly, as if on autopilot, trailed behind him like a lost cat. Your latte on your hand still remained, though the lid wasn’t covering the cup entirely and only half of the original content was there. Of course you couldn’t afford to throw it away, it cost forty thousand, for fuck’s sake. That was a lot of money for someone who didn’t have much to begin with, for example, you.
You didn’t even know his name, and he didn’t know yours. How could he be so comfortable aiding strangers like that?
Your eyes flickered to the watch on his wrist, and you gulped. Dang… must be nice to be rich. You weren’t so blind as to not catch his mannerisms, the way he talked, and his suit—you could tell he was a whole lot different than you, probably worlds away. Suddenly you felt like you wanted to go back home, that you had embarrassed yourself like this, your own fault; and now you were accepting his help.
“Here.” His voice snapped you back into reality, and you blinked, seeing the shirt in his hand that he’d offered to you. “I’m afraid it’s a little big, but you can tuck it into your skirt.”
You hesitated before taking it, eventually agreeing to his offer, and placed your cup on the table in front of you. “Alright, I’ll be back in a while, um...” You didn’t know his name yet.
“Just Tom is fine, really.”
Hmm. So his name is Tom?
“Okay, Mr. Tom.”
His eyes twinkled and he raised an eyebrow, almost as if he wanted to ask you something, but before you could even guess what it was, he nodded, and now a polite smile was settling itself on his lips. You frowned and wanted to ask him about it, and if he wanted to change as well, but you didn’t find enough courage in yourself to do it, so you turned around and started walking to the bathroom.
It had been eventful, this day.
—
“You didn’t tell me your name.”
He opened the conversation—and you noticed, he was wearing a white shirt, a clean one, was it possible he had another?—immediately as you sat down across from him, your purse on your lap and his shirt on your body. When he pulled out something from his pocket, you thought it’d be a cigarette, but it was his phone instead.
“Ah.” You blinked, and fidgeted with your hands. Your voice was low when you spoke out your name, but he seemed to hear it fine, because he repeated the word and smiled.
“It’s a nice name.” He said.
“Thanks.” You bit your lips nervously, and in that pick-me kind of way, you tucked your strand of hair behind your ear. “You have a nice name, too.”
God, you thought, you’re so bad at conversations.
“It’s nothing. It’s similar to Thomas, that train cartoon that kids watch,” he shrugged, lazily sipping a hot coffee he recently ordered when you were still in the bathroom. “My friends back then used to tease me with that.”
“Oh,” you responded, trying to hide your shock at how easily he told you about his past. You just met. “That must’ve sucked,” you said in retaliation, your sympathy just enough to show that you were sorry about that.
When he chuckled, the sound was heavenly in your ears, and you bit the insides of your mouth, suddenly overcome with nervousness.
“We were children, that was nothing,” he said, and his gaze moved upwards to clash against yours. You quickly looked away, not wanting to get caught in the act of staring at him, but he seemed like he had known about it anyway. “Where are you from?” He asked.
“Some districts before the countryside.” You cringed in your mind, that sick, gurgling feeling on your stomach of realizing you’d never be on the same level as him. Sure, you also lived in a city with skyscraper buildings, and worked in a company with a pay enough to establish an upper middle class lifestyle, but you never spent money where you didn’t need it. And looking at his watch and your purse, you knew that watch had cost more than your bag could ever hope to obtain.
“Aah, not too dystopian, huh?” He asked, the corner of his lips curving into the barest smirk you’d ever seen—you weren’t even sure if it was a smirk at all, or if you were only hallucinating.
“Well, I just don’t like the heavy traffic here,” you sipped your coffee and placed it back on the table, barely drinking enough to your satisfaction. But you had to save it, of course you had, all the remaining latte was only a few , and it was so good and you wanted to order more—yet sadly, your wallet would beg to differ. “Besides, the living cost here is… pricey.”
He hummed and nodded. “That’s true.” His voice prickled your ears just right, like there was some sort of an additive in that, you’d give anything to have this man reading a book to you or something. “Do you live alone?”
Oddly enough, this feels like an interview.
You shook your head and smiled. “Mhm, just to be closer to work.” You kept your gaze down as you studied the pattern of the chair he was sitting on, and your eyes hazily dragged themselves to settle on his hands, and you cursed your mind for thinking such unholy thoughts. But… his hands are something else. “What about you?” Feeling like you didn’t want him to only ask the questions, you retaliated back, and tried to be as polite as he had been since the first time you two met.
“I used to not live alone, until three months ago,” he sighed as if recalling a memory from the past, and you could see it, the gears turning on his mind. “But that’s a long story, one I’d rather not tell.” When he shrugged, you could see he hesitated for a bit before continuing his sentence. “So what do you do for work?”
The topic changed so fast, you felt like he regretted saying it in the first place. Out of respect and not wanting to bring it up again, you replied to his question.
It was easy to explain what your job was, what you did at work, and that sort of thing. Truthfully, you weren’t entirely sure if you wanted to tell him, but why not? It wasn’t like you were going to meet him again, anyways. Better relish in this short company for a while before returning to your old, boring schedule. A little encounter with a handsome man surely wouldn’t do you any harm, even here and there.
After you finished your story, he hummed and sipped his coffee that you’d suspected had long gone cold, and you frowned at him. Nobody likes cold coffees.
“Your job is… interesting.” He said, a chuckle escaping his mouth at the same time he checked his watch. “Not much to tell about mine, sadly.”
You wanted to ask him what he meant by ‘interesting’, but you kept your mouth shut until he continued, “are you aware enough of politics?”
That question had taken you aback so hard that you raised both of your eyebrows at the same time. Did he mean, do you know the political affairs currently clouding our country right now? Well, you were old enough to vote—for more than eight years—of course you knew. That presidential candidate you rooted for had won the race three months ago, so how could you possibly not be ‘aware enough of politics’?
“Yes, I’m aware.” You answered. “What about it?” Don’t tell me your political opinions are different from mine.
“Do you think our current leader would rule this country well?” Straight to the point—again, you were shocked by how easily he displayed all of that, his mannerisms and what he thought, the things in his mind. How easy it was to reveal himself to a stranger, and how kind he had been.
“That’s, um…” From that question alone, you couldn’t possibly deem the position he once stood on, so you wanted to phrase your words as best as you could. You didn’t want to offend him, of course. “It’s hard to say.”
Sensing your discomfort, he cleared his throat and spoke, “I apologize, that was pretty straightforward of me, wasn’t it?”
You heaved a sigh and shook your head. “Not at all,” you answered. “It’s just, well, he was my choice, I mean—I’m sure he would, if I didn’t think that, I wouldn’t have voted for him in the first place.” Shrugging, you took a gulp of your latte and leaned back, placing your hand lazily on the side of your cup.
He smiled again, stars twinkling in his eyes. “You made the right choice, then.”
The relief on your face, you thought, he could see it. It was obvious how relieved you were to know he was on the same side as you were—because difference in political opinions could hardly be called a small matter, if anything it was a big problem that could tear down relationships and friendships.
And for the record, you liked him. Tom. This stranger you just met.
The euphoria of winning the election had been like none other. And the euphoria of knowing Tom also chose the same candidate filled you with strange happiness.
You two continued to talk for hours after, conversations after conversations with topics ranging from the most random thing in your lives to the most complicated thing about the world’s current political affairs, and then before you’d even known it, the sun had gone down. The sun that was shining on his hair and his magnificent smile, had decidedly set, and then the city was bustling with cars and buses on the road. You knew you’d hate the traffic after this, but the train wasn’t so far away, you could walk back as you had done when you walked here.
This time, you didn’t want to leave. You wanted to stay, to still talk to him—because God he was so smart, he was so intelligent that you couldn’t help but admire him, and there was this thing that made you… drawn to him. An invisible string pulling you, tightening its grip on your wrist and refusing to let go. Whatever it was, whether it be his voice, his personality or his looks, you wanted to stay, despite everything. Your mind told you, and you knew you weren’t going to see him after this, and it was so sad, because you wanted to see him again, wanted to keep in touch—but would he?
Would he want the same thing as well?
It was far past eight in the evening when you realized, one way or another, you had to stop the conversation. If you continued this, you knew it was never going to end. He was surprisingly talkative, but his words weren’t lies—no sweet nothings, just heavenly sentences and that pure delicacy of that of his voice gracing your ears. He was by far the most perfect man you’d encountered in your life, intelligent, soft-spoken, gentle and had a particularly awesome personality.
God, he’s perfect.
“It’s almost nine, huh?” He hummed, checking his watch that looked expensive even from afar. You nodded slightly and kept your head down, and instead of trying to paint a perfect picture of him in your mind, you wanted it only to be a memory away. Fragments of something that once happened, in a coffee shop, far from a place you called home.
“Well, I suppose this is the end of our talk.” His shoulders relaxed, but that smile still clung to his lips. You raised your head again as your gaze met his, and you returned his smile.
“It’s been nice meeting you.” He said, standing up slowly. You followed suit with your purse around your shoulder, and when he offered his hand for a handshake, you accepted it with an aching heart.
Dang it…
“It’s been nice to meet you too.” You replied, as polite as you could. The texture of his hand felt oddly soft, it had a hint of roughness to it, but barely anything to let you know he wasn’t someone who worked in an oil rig or something. Normal was the word for it. You were sure your hand’s texture was like that as well.
He nodded, and when he broke the gesture, you wanted to whine at the loss of the warmth of his hand, but you kept your silence as he packed his bag. You watched him, his movements, how graceful he moved—they told you everything about the way he was raised as a child. He definitely was such a polite child, for sure.
When he finished, you two walked together to the café ’s exit in silence, side by side, and though no one was talking, you knew you were comfortable with this. The atmosphere outside was a typical Jakarta nightlife, just like any other day, you assumed. He opened the door for you and you smiled, slightly blushing from the interaction. He did seem like the kind of man to open the door for a woman.
“My ride is over there,” he spoke finally, pointing to the direction of his car not far from the coffee shop. You blinked and nodded, processing the information and saving it in the back of your mind, in case you two ever meet again sometime in the future. “Do you commute here?”
“Yes.” You answered shortly, hands fiddling with his shirt you still wore.
He hummed. “Why did you go here, anyway? Was it for your work?” Raising an eyebrow, he took his blazer off to hang it on his arm, and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt so they reached his elbows. You could feel him staring at you, but that was probably your delusion feeding your mind.
“No, I just kind of…” you clicked your tongue curtly and cringed remembering the situation that brought you to this position. “Well, I fell asleep on the train and missed my stop. So I decided to, you know, explore a little bit, and then go back home.”
“Oh,” he said. “Did I hold you up?” He tilted his head when you looked at him, and his tone was playful, like he was teasing you.
You shook your head quickly, though you knew his question was entirely rhetorical in itself. “Not at all. I enjoyed our conversation.”
“So did I.” He nodded and grinned. It was wide, the way he did it, and you had to refrain yourself from blushing. Seeing his dimples was an experience out of this world—God, how could someone be so sweet ?
“I better get going, then.” You hesitantly said. Your legs still wanted to be planted into this place, into that chair where you sat and talked to him, but you knew you had to take your leave. A guest had to be aware of the time they were staying, and you were overstaying your welcome, for sure.
He smiled. “Of course. Would you like a ride to the station?”
It would be nice to spend a few more minutes with him, but you weren’t sure if you could bear it, that thin thread of hope, of wishing you could prolong the time so long as it would last, to stretch it so far away that both of you wouldn’t see it—so you shook your head and answered briefly, “no, thank you. It’s a short walk.”
“Very well.” He answered. The silence that followed was undeniably, suffocatingly unpleasant, so you rushed to fix your shirt and said your goodbye.
“Good evening, Mr. Tom.”
He nodded and smiled again, the stars twinkling in his eyes. “Good evening.” And when your name rolled off on his lips, you knew it was a feeling you’d always crave to feel in your heart.
You turned around and walked in slow, long steps, but before you knew it, you had crossed the street carefully, and you swallowed the disappointment down your throat. You couldn’t help it when you craned your head backwards to see him, to see that he was still standing there, and staring at you.
Deciding to be a little silly, and considering this was the last ever interaction you two would likely ever have, you waved. You never expected him to return it, of course, that gesture was childish, you admitted. But then he waved back, like it was a dream, out of a story book, and your heart fluttered.
God, you’ll never see him again.
That alone hurt.
You held your gaze with him for a few seconds, before you finally turned around and left for good.
Fin.