The Real Ending?

“Tell me a story with a real ending,” you said all of a sudden. 

It was our first day moving into that shaggy room. I sat near the balcony, making sketches. You sat behind me, reading Hemingway.

I sipped my last coffee as I wrote the story inside my mind.
“Somewhere...,” I began, “there are two people twisting and wandering at every path and road together. As the sun goes down, they down to opposite directions. Sadly, they’re just two people impaired by remembrance.”
You sighed and turned to your Hemingway. And I to my sketchbook.

“Will you remember us then?” once again, your voice broke the silence. So I laughed and turned my back to you. 

You smiled, “I change my question. Which memory of us you will remember the most?”

Sunset passed. In a second, the room went dark, yet your big brown eyes gleamed.
“Will words ever be enough?” I asked, “and will memories ever stay?”
You closed your book and frowned. So I smiled and turned back to my sketchbook.

It was silence. 

Suddenly you wrapped your hands around my waist and put your head on my shoulder. Chilly breeze slapped my face, yet your body felt so warm. 

“I rather collect moments,” I said, “and this will be my favorite ones.”
I felt your laughter on my back. Then you started to hum. It was your favorite song.

…

I’m sitting next to your bedside, reading Hemingway out loud for you, 

“after awhile I went out and left the hospital and walked back to the hotel in the rain. The end.” 

And I closed the book, reaching out to hold your wrinkled old hand. It still feels so warm. The room is bright, yet I can’t see your big brown eyes. They are closed.

“Don’t worry, I will be fine. You may rest now,” I whisper in your ear. You do as I told and breathe your last breath. Somehow, the air crooning your favorite song.


END?



Denpasar, October 21st, 2017