Her
perfume still in my nostrils as a hangover from strong liquor that
begs for more has kept me up all night to welcome the dawn with its
strong sprout sun as I take my tenth bath of the day to ward off the
itching from the humid air. The melodious racy sound of Tibetan words
she spoke on the phone sitting across me on the table on which plates
of food were strewn reverberate in my mind as mores code signal of WWII
in a long deserted army camp.
The little restaurant in an
upstairs of a business area with its cool, silent and dim aura had
channelled our minds to nonchalance to the melting heat of the
eye-piercing bright late afternoon outside. The momos, the boneless
chilly chicken and soup we shared, according to the note of the manager
of the restaurant on the first page of the menu that kept me thinking
if only all restaurants had it for their new comers, easily led us to
chirp in our minds on a number of issues, and most of all it tied us
down to relate stories of our peoples who have gone through worse
times. If I had anything left unsaid over the meal, it would only be of
her seductive eyes and the faces she makes when she dances which has
always sprang up in front of my eyes when I meet her. My comments on
women, and shorts and sleeveless clothes during summer time which she
found lewd didn’t lead the stories of our peoples to divergent
directions of unheeding ears. The stories themselves blended creating
between us a pact that didn’t need our signatures when they ended.
If
our next meeting before she leaves this city is our last one, it will
make her omnipresent smile bold emitting from her small eyes and milky
teeth which I saw on my first day in campus as I waited for my name to
be called up for registration. I guess it will be a goodbye bequeathing
memories that resist farewells.
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