La femme dans la bibliothèque

Why, the book that you hold with your feeble hands hides your nose and your lips from mine eyes. As you douse your worldly troubles and insecurities with timeless writings printed on yellowing, aging pieces of paper, I witness how those eyes veer from one page to another in a way almost quite menacing and mesmerizing at the same time; how they seem to persistently chase after words and phrases and sentences and paragraphs as if these are the only things in life that truly matter to you. As you rise up from what seems to be an awfully wrong attempt to slouch on a very unaccommodating chair, long strands of black hair vaguely glimmer like a deep ocean under the overcast sky, wrapping around the edges of a freckled face like a slightly illuminated veil of silk. You, possibly suppressed by the deafening silence and punctiliousness of this ancient repository, awkwardly – almost reluctantly – stretch your hands high up in the air, (before a long line of bookshelves that silently tower from a distance, before book enthusiasts in search for possibly hidden treasures while walking on the wooden floor with incredibly muffled feet), and heave a sigh of what came to me as a small fragment of a satisfaction.

Is something wrong? How can I help you? Tough paperwork? Good day! Hi, it may not be any of your concern but I was wondering if you would like me to introduce myself to you because I would really like to do so: my name is…

No! I think of the perfect sentence to spark a timely conversation, but the pressure of providing you the rightfully adequate and fitting first impression is currently leaving me on a verbal squander that could invite only a disheartening rejection. Should I write a speech? Get a coffee? Send a note via the librarian walking towards my direction? What the hell am I doing. Think! Think! What sentence… words, words…

I look at you again, amazed at your unconventionally tall nose; at your crimson lips that pout like a fresh bud in the morning light; at your face that could, in reference to a song, launch a thousand ships; and at your eyes, so weak and small, squinting against the now bright and clear midday sky. So amazed at the sight of them that I now suddenly have a feeling. A feeling that causes me to believe that the universe isn’t so big after all. That flowers can bloom in the driest of deserts, even in the darkest of winter evenings. That time, although irreversible, does make up for the mistakes of the past and unwaveringly presents us with new opportunities.

But I stand up, push my chair aside, and return my books to the library counter, and walk out the revolving doors, as if I had seen nothing. As if I had seen none.

Germaine

Although she wore a white belt around her waist, it was fat and it had the kind of white that sparkled like opal under the sun. Who could blame her for showing up in school strapped in what almost seemed like a glinting girdle, a loose elastic band that could only possibly have buckled up nicely on a thirty-four inch belly? We just moved in to a new house and everything is still in a terrible mess. She woke up late and to the bitter realization that her belt was drowned in a mountain pile of knickerboxers and trousers and pantaloons, over-sized handkerchiefs and colossal comforters, her mother’s inexpressibles and faux animal coats and stockings and her father’s collection of basketball jerseys which he only wears to sleep, and my favourite set of costumes for the annual talent show back in Queenstown; and so there was no other choice but to borrow her mother’s, which was already on her belly, struggling to make ends meet. Meanwhile, her dark blue pinafore which usually looks fresh from the iron board, smooth and wrinkle-free and crisp along the creases and edges, now looks like it had never even ventured into the washing machine at all. The starfish sticker her brother secretly put behind her dress last week was still there.

Her hair looked like a bunch of cables that hung on electric posts, forced into a mishmash that no one in her household could comprehend on a sleazy early Monday morning. How she managed to do that to herself still remains a mystery to me. It was clear that she took a bath before she went downstairs, for it was not difficult to detect the scent of her favourite shampoo from the balcony where I stood waiting for her school bus to arrive. Her mother tried to resolve her problem in the bathroom, although I did not know how she did it, for I was never allowed to enter the bathroom. Well, she came out with her hair looking less fizzy, good enough not to get scolded by her homeroom teacher or worse, made fun of by her classmates. A few of her fancy lollipop hairpins would have done the trick, I thought. But no one has ever heard or understood my suggestions anyway. It kind of bums me but oh well. I guess they can’t hear me sometimes.

But you know, no matter how disgruntled or disfigured her uniform or her hairstyle looks, she always manages to pull off a pretty face and a pretty smile. I like how she stares at me straight into my eyes and smiles, fondling the back of my ears and running her fingers back and forth my belly in a gentle streamlined fashion, how she tries her utmost care not to hit my nozzle when I come close to her or step on my tail when she passes by the narrow foyer in front of the backyard where I usually take my afternoon naps. I like how she volunteers to put my meals on my plate, and how she lets me sit beside her on the couch when she watches her favourite weekend cartoon shows. I like watching her sleep on her bed at night, and I like how the deafening noises in her room turn into peaceful and lucid silence as she resigns on her bed with her eyes and mouth closed, hands folded as if submitting a prayer, fragile body tucked underneath the sheets, her mind dreaming away into places only she could reach. And I like it most when she wakes up in the morning, the air billowing with the noises of a young girl complaining, crying, getting excited, getting annoyed, talking about the dreams she had last night, fighting with her brother on the kitchen table, eating breakfast and staring at her orange juice and then at her father’s half-filled pot of cold coffee wondering what makes it smell so good, getting ready, waving goodbye to me and watching her walk out of the gate and leave for school, eagerly waiting for the time I’d see her again.