The first day we meet, let's not say much, let us simply sit across from each other in a restaurant, quietly. I don't know what you'd like to have but I won't mind chicken wings with ketchup, and Fanta.
When you say "Hello, Derick," don't say it with a smile, or at least a life-has-been-good-to-me smile, say it in broken verses, kind of conserved, like you can sense the true extent of my happiness, the state of my mind buried beneath my cordiality. Forgive me if I reply with a nod, if I take your hand and shake it without a word, if I stumble while pulling out a chair for you, because at first-meetings I usually am awkward.
Come with a pen and paper, as I would too. We'd need it when we finally run out of things to say.
You see, I have been searching for an outer-body experience; I have spent the larger part of my twenties seeking something incomprehensible: a love, a connection, a friendship, anything to awaken my lack-lustre soul. So when you come, come like a storm, sweep me off my feet and show me your eyes that I may see darkness, lightening, thunder, and the horizon.
Within the first few seconds of our meeting, I will have been demystified, and you may start counting down to never-seeing-me-again. You will come to discover how disinterested in current affairs I can be, how very little excites me, how even the books I read I cannot so much as remember their titles. You will see how undefined I am, how there are so many things I wish to be but can't seem to bring myself to being them.
My saving grace will be to tell you a story, and you telling it back to me. So, with the pen and paper I asked that you come with, we will begin telling a prose.
Me:
The world is busy. Its people are, too. The sky stays the same, but for the seasons which alter it.
You:
The world is busy, but you aren't, true. The sky stays the same, but for nothing. Why you equate reality to nature astounds me. Tells me you're running away from something - yourself.
Me:
You sit across from me, and I am blind. Blind from cowardice, for I cannot summon the courage to stare into your soul-filled eyes. I fear that when you look into mine- you will come to see that they are narrow, that life has left them, that I am fucking stranded, a toddler, and that my courage, dead on arrival, is just starting to grow wings.
You:
You sit across from me, and I am reminded of how ordinary we can be--the stray dog wondering in your narrow eyes, the twinkle you blanket with every blink, the quietness that pervades your aura. That is me, you are me, and we are not 'fucking stranded', neither are we toddlers, we're simply ordinary people with ordinary problems, and ordinary is a hell of a lot more complicated than the world says it is.
At this very moment, I will have remembered something to say, and I would put down my pen to tell you about the man who jumped in the ocean.
"Have you heard about the man who jumped in the ocean?--Third Main-Land bridge."
"I have. They say he was depressed."
"So I hear. That he was thirty five, a doctor."
"Maybe he wasn't depressed. Maybe he received bad news he couldn't handle, so he jumped in the ocean."
"Maybe he discovered he was married to his sister. Or he had sex with his daughter."
"Maybe he discovered he was HIV positive."
"Maybe he lost his life savings in a ponzi scheme."
"Or maybe he really was suicidal, really was depressed."
Staring guiltily into each other's eyes, a gentle wind--a ghost--will blow past us, flicking your hair and causing us to squint. Because maybe 'suicidal' is something we both have experienced. We will say a prayer for the dearly departed.
"My mother ran away right after giving birth to me," you will say. "My father, he raised me like a man. Never to shed tears. To bite my tongue at every disappointment. 'Liars are thieves,' he will say. 'To tell a lie is to steal the truth from somebody else. And I will not lie to you. You must be strong.'"
"Sounds like a line from The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini."
A long silence--the ghost--will pass again. Then you'll say:
"I must leave now. It's getting late."
And we will stand up, dance, like Rumplestilskin, round the fire of our prose lying on the table.
"I told you we'd create something amazing!" I'd say, and you'd reply, "Amazing is a stretch, Michael. What we've done is sand on canvas," with a smirk.
On your way out, you will leave a hickey on my cheek, and I'd watch you walk out, through the transparent double-door, like a memory I'd never forget. Outside, on the promenade, you'd turn back, and we'd exchange a final glance. Then you'd turn into a bird and fly away, leaving your handbag on the ground.
In the night, wide awake in bed, I'd remember how quickly I ran for your bag after you flew away. I'd reach for it, and in there I will find a note, saying: "Now you believe me? Ordinary is more complicated than the world makes it seem. You met a ghost today, how about that? - Mary Yakhong." The wind will gently sough, soft as a sigh, and, with a smile, I will say, "Hail Mary, the Lord is with thee, blessed art thou amongst women..."