嘴唇的皮，和指甲類似，是無止盡生長的東西。在活著的時候，無怨無悔的修復傷口。指甲，甚至死後仍然頑固的生長。
＊
Youtube的播放清單內，有十四首歌等待播放，有時影片被刪除了就自動在三秒之後跳到下一首，不停的輪迴。她用聽音樂的方法計算自己入睡的時刻，有的時候才聽個兩首就睡著了，但也有一些夜晚，同樣的歌都聽了三輪了，卻仍像貓頭鷹那樣守著夜。
音樂是很必須的東西，填滿了所有空間之間的空虛。空氣分子有時隨著音樂舞動，有時隨著音樂沈默。有時候淘氣的在牆壁之間彈來彈去，甚至忽略了放音樂的人。在角落，哭泣。音樂不用安慰的口吻安慰你，只是填滿而已。像水一般的填滿任何附給的空間，不帶任何情感的唱著自己的旋律。
還在不久之前，她仍是擁有豐富的生命力的。懂得生活，懂得幽默，會哭也會笑。她每天早上準時九點起床，邊做早餐邊聽買東西送的輕爵士音樂cd，再邊吃早餐邊看書。每天都看個二十分鐘左右，按照這樣的進度大約每個月能夠消化兩本書的份量。
她有目標，有男朋友，也有跟男朋友一起建立的目標。在她整個臉上最滿意的部份是鼻子，不太大也不太小，沒那樣塌也沒那樣挺，就是很安全的，優雅的落在臉中央。她想起在雜誌上看到一篇關於西裝的報導，一位紳士的西裝應該不顯眼，不會使人想回頭再看一次，卻要舒服的，不經意的透露出品味。她相信鼻子也是類似的東西，不引人矚目，卻又意外的，美好的點綴著臉龐。
在夢裡面，一隻黑色的狗出現，並躺臥在床的邊緣。她近乎能感受到黑色大狗獨特的體溫烘著她的雙腳，狗的肚皮隔著棉被仍然熱烈的起伏著，像個半生不熟的蛋黃那樣貼切的被一層薄糢包圍住，有一種想要奪門而出的隱約感。狗閉著眼睛，頭溫馴的擺在自己的懷裡安靜的睡著，連尾巴都內向的朝內蜷縮起，形體活生生像個流線的葫蘆。腳的部份感覺越來越沈重，灼熱，但卻又不敢移動。有一種很不祥的預感，也不知道動物睡眼惺忪的狀態會有什麼舉動，維持現狀遠遠比轉變來的安全多，於是雙腳伸的直直的，像市場堆成一堆的甘蔗那樣直，然後想辦法睡著。
也就真的睡著了。在夢裡的夢裡睡著後才真正跌入那沒有時間流逝的國度，像被一層濃厚的黑色煙霧包圍住，沒有方向，沒有計時的行走著。甚至不曉得自己在行走著，跟死亡一樣沒有任何的感覺，也不知道自己已死去。沒有人能確定自己是否死亡或只是睡去，直到醒來的一瞬間才驚覺 “喔，我剛剛原來在睡覺“。很多人就這樣一直睡下去，連呼吸都不知道怎麼停的。人們總是說著，“xxx很幸運，他是在睡夢中過世的“，但或多或少只是一種委婉的，安慰的話語。沒有人願意承認，xxx怎麼死的都不知道，就這樣不明不白的醒不過來。也或許，如果思緒是可以延續的東西，也就是說靈魂和肉體是分開的，那是否一個惡夢也能無止盡的，不須靠肉體的存活而繼續發展呢？如果這個人，碰巧正作著惡夢，就這樣心臟病發，表情扭曲的死掉(前提是在死前，身軀又是與靈魂如此十指緊扣的個體)，那麼這個惡夢必定只會往更糟糕的地方發展，隨著每串鎮痛而連接到更亥人的情節，然後突然肉體解脫了，靈魂脫節了，永遠的奔跑著，失去了被喚醒的權力。
她醒來的時候根本沒有什麼黑色大狗躺在腳上，也沒有殘留的狗毛瀟灑的宣示著離去。所剩的只有夢境中與平日一般真實的細節，而且黑色大狗成功的潛入了棉被的夢境，睡著或醒著，她都輸了，而且無能為力。
在很小的時候，也在稍微大一點的時候發生過類似的情形，而現在又開始了。不是指黑色大狗出現的事情，而是指棉被忘記打哈欠這樣子的事情。沒有任何原因，預兆，棉被開始看見黑色的大狗，就像飛蚊症那樣的討厭，然後在這同時也失去了一樣東西 - 打哈欠的能力。
2.
走在路上碰見真正的，充滿溫暖血液的黑色大狗時，它們反而缺乏了真實感，像小草在一幅畫裡面那般無害，自然的以配角的身分存在著。有時，甚至分不清究竟是棉被的腦袋賦予了黑色大狗恐怖的聯想，還是其實黑色大狗本身就有一種令人畏懼的本質。若是後者的話，那麼棉被應當要被路上 每 一 隻 大狗驚嚇才對，而不是不停的被這些大狗的 “幻覺" 所影響。棉被的腦子可能病了，亦或者好不容易康復了，而這之間產生的恐懼，正是因為大腦某些萌起的改變所造成的，自衛性的恐懼。或許從頭到尾，黑色大狗只是一種自我產生的預言，而棉被實際上害怕的並不是這樣子的形體，而是這形體來源的地方。
棉被開始不停的思考，思考從小到大的回憶，每一項都像公車上油膩膩的窗戶般模糊，經由仔細擦拭過後才能看見移動中的風景。她思考著現在與未來，自己及它人，時間流逝的模式，感覺自己的生命平白無辜的接受了數十年的掏洗，卻沒有形成任何的附帶物，反而洗練的將近透徹。她想不出自己是用甚麼樣的感覺渡過這些年，稱不上快樂，也稱不上不快樂，只是重蹈覆轍每一頓早餐，午餐，晚餐。一切實體的，深刻的記憶都從看見黑色大狗開始具體化。無論在街上走著，賴床時在床上臥著，洗臉時指尖在臉上輕輕的摩挲著，她都能感到很真實的存在感，可以清楚的感受到自己沈浸在某件動作裡的樣子。就像靈魂遊走看著軀體繼續睡眠一般，卻仍保持著十足的行動力。
從小到大，棉被都沒有養過寵物。不要說狗跟貓了，連魚，烏龜這種意識上的寵物都沒有。她從來對狗都沒有特別多的感覺，反而比較喜歡善變的貓。喜歡貓的實際理由她也不清楚，喜歡貓這件事情就像睡覺要蓋棉被那樣的自然，沒有經過深思熟慮就決定的事情。現在仔細的想著貓這種生物，吸引人最大的地方就是若隱若現的附屬感，好像是你的，又好像不是你的。會選擇飼養狗跟貓當寵物的人個性也明顯的區分開，會養狗的人或許嚴重的缺乏安全感，需要無時無刻他人的注意，而養貓的人或許個性較獨立，喜歡與人保持安全的距離，存在著適當的危機意識。然而，反過來想，或許喜愛貓的人才是不折不扣的膽小鬼，無法接受任何人（或動物）百分之百的信任，同時也無法撇開一切相信一個人。如果一樣東西從未屬於你，自然就失去了能夠被失去的性質。
1.
第一次這種情形發生的時候，棉被才十歲。雖說在那很久之前已經發生了許多類似的，預警似的狀況，但這件事情算是在記憶中，較為印象深刻，顛覆性質的片段。在那之前，棉被像個一般的少女，看著一般的事情。這種機械式的生活，就算參雜著對話，思緒，卻彷彿從未存在過。像似堵塞的水槽，一滴一滴滲透著規律的水珠，直到暢通的那一瞬間，所有的水一窩蜂的排出，一切變得如此清晰。好比一個一生出來就鼻塞的人，某天突然呼吸到新鮮的空氣一般訝異，有時候順序已經不是重點了。
在那件事情發生以前，她還是個話很多的女生，每天一回到家就等不及報告在學校發生的事情。當然這些所謂發生的 "事情"，現在想起來只不過是那些 "為了發生而發生的事情"，也就是說，世界上絕大多數的的人說的話，時常是為了說話而說話，而並不是因為這句話有什麼必要的作用。人與人之間本來就是一堆廢話堆積出來的“人際關係“，就像垃圾必須裝在袋子裡一樣的自然，轉動著每個社會。但那件事情發生之後，棉被就在也不能那樣，隨心所欲的說話了。每當她說話的時候，她彷彿能抽離自己的身體飄在空中，看著自己傻傻的笑著，吐出既流暢又佔位子的長篇大論，卻填滿不了任何空間。她清醒了，徹徹底底的清醒了。
那天是個溫暖的下午，客廳的地毯上有一股陽光的味道，棉被的媽媽和哥哥坐在餐桌前吃著點心，而棉被則雙手扶著一把餐桌椅，蹦蹦跳跳的說著話。邊跳邊說話，突然，棉被轉身看了一眼左手邊的位置，竟看見一隻黑色的大狗，虎視眈眈的躺在牆邊，一動也不動的卻足夠嚇傻了她。她大聲驚呼，媽媽和哥哥抬頭望著她，緊張的問她怎麼回事。棉被定下神來再次向左看去，卻只不過躺了一只哥哥的黑色大背包，裡頭裝滿了沈重的課本，筆記本，長長的背帶從旁邊延伸出來，活生生像條尾巴。
她總坐在游泳池畔看他游泳，看他螺旋般的雙臂拍打著水面，都不會累似的，一開啓就無法降落。
那個指甲泛紅的男人，應該很健康吧，她這麼想著。他體內的血液應該十分流暢，彷彿大腦一下命令，一股暖流就會順從的立刻流向耳根，腳趾，並且充分的呈現粉色。他體內的血液是順著還逆著外頭的水向流呢？她想起漂流在海上的可樂罐，內容的液體順著浪的起伏顛簸著，沒有方向，只是來來回回的攪拌著。
她盯著自己握著甜筒的手指看，香草口味的冰淇淋慢慢融化，從一側流下來。她正在進行戒掉咬手指的壞習慣，只好不停的吃著甜筒，她發現舔冰淇淋跟咬指甲在某種程度上，都能刪除一些憂慮焦躁感。她微微長出的指甲缺乏色澤且薄弱。報導指出，指甲蒼白的人內心較憂鬱，容易鑽牛角尖，並態度不夠樂觀。她無法分辨自己真是這樣的個性，還是從小到大的習慣使指甲發育不正常。
他仍奮力的踢著水，她記不清楚這是第幾圈了。像秒針一般的不停來回，泳池是方形的時鐘，計算她發呆的長久時間。
無法不用天氣當故事的開頭，我們就如此活在這樣朦朧的世界裡，無形的受著季節的影響，是預兆也是氣氛。這是一個關於天氣的故事。
當女孩不知所措，在尤其尷尬的場面時，她總是不由自主的談起天氣。今天的雨是如此傾斜而下，像把利刃，以一種近乎完美的角度一刀刀的卸下肉塊。
她時常外出，台灣的熱帶氣候總是使她忽冷忽熱，忽潮忽乾。她喜歡穿一雙拖鞋在街道上疾走，地面的水灘被她的腳狠狠地甩上一巴掌，在她米色的短褲上留下一滴滴的污澤。
有時候，一片溼透的樹葉黏附於她小腿的背面，像隻無聲的寄生蟲隨她穿越大街小巷，最終在一家店面前滑落，跌回泥濘海中成了一隻沙丁魚，扁扁的呼吸著。
00
她在辦公室休息的時候看見了桌上一疊未充氣的氣球。那應該是為了準備明天的活動，她想，很少看過這般形狀的氣球，躺在那好像一根根乾枯的手指，乞求再一次的生命。無聊之際，她抽了一個黃色的氣球出來，給它鬆弛了幾下後便吹氣。這種鉛筆氣球實在很難吹，她才把它吹成一根四季豆就累了，原本也許應該是根小黃瓜。氣球在她面前迅速的擠壓出剛才被灌進去的血液，其實很可憐，不是慢慢的流逝生命，就是長嘶一聲，猛地氣絕身亡。那只乾扁的黃色橡皮條又被她扔回了桌上，看似平靜，但以經過了生命中的一番波折。
01
在很久以前，她就聽說過了那種遊戲。聽說那害死了許多追求刺激的小朋友，當時她也是小朋友，也喜愛刺激，但通常她都等著刺激找上門。
她喜歡買鞋，任何款式的鞋都喜歡，堆積在家裡卻不整理，幸好公寓她一個人住，客廳地上成了一片海，而一雙雙的鞋像一隻隻落單的魚，有高跟鞋，布鞋，涼鞋。。甚至拖鞋也有好幾雙。
她常常穿著一雙夾腳鞋去逛街，買更多的鞋。夾腳鞋舒適，方便，並且准許她容易的滑出，滑入另一雙鞋。有時後買了另一雙鞋她就會請店員把她的夾腳鞋放入一個塑膠袋裡，拎在手上帶回去。
就連去運動跑步時她也要穿上十分時髦的布鞋，百分之百的軟皮鞋加上蕾絲的鞋帶，輕巧又透風，但是由於她姿勢不正確，鞋底很容易就磨損，這讓她有一點心痛，也有一點興奮，因為她還有許許多多其他的布鞋未開封，在衣櫃裡靜靜的躺著。
平常上課的時候她會穿平底鞋，漂亮但舒適只維持在半公里內，因此教室跟教室之間的距離很適合這種稍許打腳的鞋，讓她每隔一段時間就有休息的空擋，也有旁人羨慕的眼光。
她住在一間二樓的公寓，每天需要爬一層樓梯才能抵達家門。那是一道戶外空心的樓梯，每踩一步就會輕輕的發出銅鑼般的悶響，因此她每次爬上爬下總是小心翼翼的抓緊了微微震動的扶手，深怕一不小心這道老舊的樓梯就會心有餘而力不足的塌陷於她腳下。對她來說，這道樓梯是通往家門必經的路程，不管再怎麼危險坎坷都得走。如果家是她心甘情願飛回的籠子，那這階梯就成了她飛回籠裡最後的瀏覽，但她卻從未用心體會監禁前的最後風景。
-
女孩住在小巷裡的一間三層房。一樓包括客廳，廚房，一間書房和衛浴，二樓則是爸媽的主臥室外加她和哥哥的房間分別在兩旁，三樓是陽台，一個空白，極少進出的平台空間。這棟房子因此內建兩道樓梯，一個通往臥室，一個通往陽台。通往二樓的樓梯重新整修過，鋪齊了深褐色的地板，兩旁還掛了幾幅高深莫測的畫。通往陽台的樓梯間卻完全不同了，由於極少人進出而荒廢，灰白色的水泥地早已佈滿陳年的蜘蛛網，不穿拖鞋是不能通往的，陽台則佈設在一扇緊拴的鐵門背後，原應該種滿花朵，充滿朝氣的陽台倒成了一個遙不可及的異度空間。
--
她不太記得有走過通往陽台的樓梯間，那裡的樓梯口前似乎掛上了一個隱形的“禁止進入“的鮮黃牌子，她彷彿能看見警察們貼著臉伏在個個階梯的地面上，邊查詢指紋邊紀錄著這裡發生的兇殺案，更何況，曾經偷跑上去的幾次都被媽媽發現，因為出現在地板上莫名的灰白腳印總是與她自己那雙腳丫剛好符合。
但通往臥房的樓梯間她就再也熟悉不過了。不管是跑著跳著或是乘坐著批發衛生紙船下樓，她都清楚也不懼怕這其中的十六階。
廁所裡的鏡子最左邊的角落有一塊污幘，她搬進來的第一天就發現了。乍看之下那塊黑點像似了一隻停頓的蜘蛛，天真的以為自己黑漆漆的身體可以隱藏在一塵不染的鏡子上。
她嘗試忽視這礙眼的斑點，但每當她轉身去廁所時總會不小心被這突兀的記印輕輕的嚇一跳，倒抽一口氣才平靜下來。那不是蜘蛛，那只是一塊蜘蛛形狀的污點，她這麼告訴自己的，不過有好幾次，她還是忍不住的貼近臉去觀看那黑點是否擁有八隻腳，或者只是悄悄的冬眠於鏡面。
一天早晨她起身去廚房煎荷包蛋，在收洗碗盤時赫然發現一隻蜘蛛正浮淺於水槽內側。是一隻千真萬確的蜘蛛，在她開啓水龍頭的時候她看見了那八隻腳驚慌失措的爬行，爬向水槽的另一面並止住休息，她想，以蜘蛛的體型那樣的爬行動作應該相當於一圈操場的衝刺，因此在她心中忽然產生了一種莫名的同情心，罪惡感由於她明白的了解她即將殺死一隻破綻滿面的蜘蛛，一隻喘息聲大到我們聽不見的蜘蛛。
大清早的，山上的陽光像棉被覆蓋在朵朵的玫瑰花身上，暖洋洋，慫恿著她們別起床。屋內的她睜開了眼睛盯著天花板看了許久，嘆了口氣便起床了。手腳冰冷的她總是暖和不起被窩，自然也沒了那溫暖的眷戀。更何況，她正迫不及待的去後院剪下剛才甦醒的花朵，她要摘滿那一朵朵隔夜又漂亮許多的玫瑰送給她的戀人。那紅色代表熱情，粉紅是羞怯，紫色是神祕，白色是純潔。。
她踏出了門，滑進了一雙黑色的拖鞋，她媽媽細心栽培的玫瑰花們一排排的綻放在陽光下，隨風擺動的姿態無比的嬌媚。每朵都充滿生氣的向天空伸展著，都想從叢林露出面貌，其餘較殘缺的，被蟲子啃咬過的便乖乖的躺在荊棘後頭，永遠見不得光明。它們確實是在比較，確實是在誇張的展示自己柔軟又堅強的花瓣，但它們深不知，每一個線條的展示，對剛踏進後院的女孩來說，就像尖叫著一句句的 來採我吧，來摘我吧，來剪我吧，來殺我吧。。
她從容的瀏覽了一遍所有的花兒，並毫不猶豫的剪下了每叢最招搖，最成熟美豔的玫瑰。一旁的桃樹圍繞了好幾隻蜂鳥，忙碌的嗡嗡叫聲掩蓋了玫瑰臨死的吶喊。誰又會希望被剝奪最閃耀的那一瞬間呢？ 它們還沒享受夠蜜蜂的追求，還沒能夠四處灑下它們誘人的花粉，只剩下透明黏稠的血液使得生鏽的剪刀鋒難以開啓。那是最後的掙扎，但女孩依舊努力的撐開剪刀的兩頰，興奮的切開一朵接一朵的玫瑰，她記得媽媽說過，剪玫瑰要剪斜的切口，這樣才容易吸水，才容易長久。叢林裡頭那些扭曲，稚嫩的玫瑰們輕輕的笑了起來，但這些女孩都沒聽見。
A little black bird with red wings had never seen blood.
He asked his mother what blood was and she said it flows inside us.
He then asked if he could see it sometime and she said it's better for you not to.
One day he saw his mother on the side of a street, broken winged and shivering
She said I'm scared to die and he watched her slowly freeze, blood weeping through but not staining her coat.
the black was too deep to conceal, he thought the red on her wing was the wound,
你有聽過狗哭的聲音嗎
我第一次聽到，是從前室友房間裡面傳出來的。那是一隻中型白色的狗，剛被領養帶回家的時候很害怕，一聲不響的，害羞到不敢上樓梯。過了幾天後，習慣了家裡的一草一木，也就漸漸吵鬧了起來，那時候我才發現，她是一隻愛哭的狗。
一天早上我被她的哭聲吵醒。她的聲音很細很細，從鼻腔裡悶出來，像擺腰扭臀擠進窗戶縫隙的風，也像蒸氣奮力從悶燒鍋逃出來的叫聲。她的哭聲越來越大，尾音越拉越長，我也跟著煩躁了起來。那段日子裡，每次她主人一離開，我就會聽到這種哭聲出現，看到一隻在門前不停打轉的狗。
I.
He had came to her one night in a rosy red dress. It was a beautiful kind of night gown with the hems extending outwards from his feet in an umbrella motion, shimmering a red glow even in the midst of night and swaying behind him like a flowing tail. He was still wearing his forest green military jacket on the outside; the crimson shoulder patches echo the color of the dress drawing him in the form of a somewhat unbalanced christmas tree.
"What's the occasion today?" She had asked after eyeing him from head to tail. He revealed a clandestine smile and pulled her against him only to let his breath rain on her forehead for a couple of seconds, then made his way in casually up the stairs. Like a child, she tugged the hem of his skirt while taking extreme care not to step on his bobbing hem the whole way up to the bedroom.
Feather and her have been lovers for eleven years, yet they were too different to be married and settled down. She spent most of her days at home gardening and painting, getting inspirations from her dreams; she would lay in bed for hours and hours, dozing off and waking up, letting images overrun her while she was half conscious, imagining colors, pictures, what love would look like. Feather on the other hand, was always out traveling and living on the edge, moving to cities without electricity several months at a time, learning new tongues and almost dying on several occasions. But it was something between them, something that would always bring them back together in the end.
She grew up in a mannequin factory located some forty miles away from the nearest town. It was a family business, and she had remembered most of her childhood days running down the aisles of the assembly lines, watching the mannequins slowly shape station after station. She saw how heads snapped onto bodies like perfectly fitted lids, and how each mannequin seemed to become an individual although their muscles mimicked each other in every way, and their heads were all positioned at a five degree tilt to the left. She thinks back to those childhood memories, happy and unornamented, when she would stroll through the uniform rows of these natural, bare bodies trying to observe a minute difference amongst them. The flamboyance of the store mannequins disgusted her- she disliked their made up faces, exaggerated postures and fancy gowns; they remind her of what she has become.
She had started a new life in town some seven years ago after leaving the mannequin house, determined to become an independent and successful woman. She wore an ironed white blouse and a pencil skirt to work at the bank everyday, where people would greet her as manager and bow at the departure of her clicking heels. She buried her face behind mountains of paperwork everyday, making emergency phone calls and tossing her beautiful brown hair or thrusting a sweet smile when necessary. People rumored ugly things behind her back in the office, but she was a well-rounded hard worker. She knew where she wanted to go and how she would go about doing them. Sometimes she would look up from the massive paper walls and stare at the pale room, contemplating her being and status. She would then walk out to the restroom and re-apply her make-up, pinch her red lips together and bounce her hair - there was a meeting due at 2pm.
It's true that she had slept with the CEO of the bank, an elderly, married man with two children and wrinkles imprinted on his face like milestones of his achievement. No one suspects this for he was a respectable, serious man who would not even take a second glance at her as they pass each other by in the hallway. She by no means had the intention of climbing her way up through this cheap method. He had called her up one night for a meeting to discuss the company's annual reports and was due at her place dressed up in a black suit and silver tie. They discussed the report, her progression, and many other things that night. The wind outside blew the curtains in his children's room, and their mother closed the window.
She felt solitude the greatest when she turned the doorknob each night, felt time the longest as she waited for the water to boil on the stove, and the most empty as she tucked herself to sleep under her pink floral sheets. Her family still ran the mannequin business; she thought about the mannequin's still faces often before she fell asleep.
When the girl had returned to his place half a year later, he was sitting on the porch of the house waiting for her, dressed in a pair of dark jeans and a white undershirt with no shoes on. His hair was pressed by a lumpy pillow that she once knew so well and lay flatly against his ear in an obedient way. There was a new barbeque stand set up on the front lawn that she had opposed him of buying before, whose shiny aluminum surface now shimmered under the summer sun.
"Hey. Can I come in now?" She looked him in the eyes where he avoided by turning his head and standing up.
"Yeah. Let's go in." He twisted the brass knob and stepped in first.
The interior of his house was almost as she had remembered it, with the rusting sink in the kitchen and spreads of unknown gravel by the entranceway. The beige carpet leading up to the second floor was still infested by smells of his ex-roommate's dog and was yellowing at the corners.
Whosoever wears a jean skirt and pink sneakers sits on the stubby sidewalks in a park with male friends drinking at ten pm, whosoever watches the elderly practice dance routines at a distance with their loud folklore music echoing with cicada chirps, whosoever pulls a bottle resting on the ground and wipes the muddy sweat dripping off the sides, whosoever twists the metal cap open with the inner slab of her arm draws red screeching marks does not mind the pain, whosoever clanks the glass with a loud cheer and dumps the contents into the throat in one nonstop motion, whosoever ignores (or did not even feel) the vibration in her pocket of her cellphone, whosoever's cellphone had stopped vibrating after a continuous seven or eight nudges, whosever neglects the worrying calls of a fatherly figure in the midst of night, whosoever burps loudly and laughs, whosoever burps loudly again and this time some stomach acid and alcohol swells up halfway past the throat in a stringent manner, whosoever swallows that conglomeration again and had her throat burned and lungs caught with rushing lava, whosoever falters to the side of the sidewalk towards the dirty sewer filled with garbage, old water, and gum wrappers, whosoever neglects the judging vision of the elderly and pours down her own share of filth into the sewer, whosoever hears the sounds of her own heartbeat like drums coming out of her sleeves, whosoever wipes her mouth clean with the towlette her friend had offered, who had held her hair back while she shivered in the dark with short breathy gasps, whosoever rinses her mouth with a water bottle and tasted the astringency once more, this time diluted in taste, whosoever calls a cab home by flinging herself in front of a yellow car and waving her hands in butterfly motions, whosoever attempts to collect herself by hanging onto the railings inside the elevator in her building, who looks at her frail image from the mirrored walls, her hair wet and dripping from unknown fluids, whosoever finally returns home and smell the asiatic incense from a dimly lit room, whosoever tip toes into that room and remain at the bedside for minutes watching the gentle tide on her father's chest, whosoever spreads her fingers across his shoulders and shook him in a light rocking manner, saying Baba I'm home, whosoever awakens her father and sees his eyes crack open in slow motion like a newborn infant, who had sat up immediately and called her name with an unused voice, who had said baby you're finally home, who held her tightly in his blanket-warm arms, whosoever has guilt wrapped around her whole body like film dares not to exhale in fear of pungency, whosoever gains the courage to tell her father once again, Baba I'm leaving and slowly leaves his grasp, whosoever watches her father sink down again in his memory-foam mattress appearing seventy years older and fifty pounds heavier, whosoever wobbles to her pre-air conditioned room with inevitable hiccups and pulls out a duffel, fills it with underwear, garments, and cosmetics, whosoever steps out the eight hundred square footage apartment and leaves her father behind, who took one last glance back at the half shut door with half shut eyes, shall never return.
She became near-sighted in the second grade. It was probably a hereditary kind of thing; no one in school owned a pair of glasses yet, and kids made fun of her, called her four eyes. She didn't like how she looked in them either, like some sort of bulgy eyed chameleon, but she had to copy things from the board and there was no way out of that.
There was a boy in the class who thought her glasses were cool. He asked her if he could try them on and she was hesitant, she thought he was teasing her. But he wasn't. He put them on and roamed around the room for a bit, and she liked how he looked in them, appearing slightly different than the rest of the boys. It was second grade, but she thought she was in love.
She would admire him from across the room in her shining spectacles, looking through the layer of glass that would help her define his face. She wanted to see him without the filter, with her own natural unmuddled eyes, but every time she took them off things just became blurry. An illusion, a dream, she saw him from afar in his blue t-shirt and grass stained jeans. She thought he had smiled at her so she ran away into the dandelion field, linking up flower stems to wear as a necklace. She drew his figure in the sand and wrote their names encircled in a heart on the peeling bark of her desk.
She didn't care about what the kids said anymore, frog-like, strange eyes. She would wear her glasses for him to see, even though he rarely looks at her anymore. So she would take them off and live in her fuzzy vision where he always seems like he's looking her way, always seems like he's smiling and just too shy to come by. She whispered his name in the echoey tunnel of the playground slide and wrote his name, over and over on the back of her worksheets and arithmetic scratch paper. Until someone picked up her fallen paper one day.
