Meaningless
The Japanese girl watches with trepidation as the fork moves towards
red lips.
Saturday is the day she makes dinner. She doesn't know quite when
they came to that arrangement. It just happened, like a lot of the
other things around their shared home. It seemed the natural thing to
do, kind of like taking turns doing the laundry, making the bed, or
washing the dishes.
Those aren't the sorts of things they talk about though. They're far
too domestic, far too close to the questions they both have but never
voice. Questions like why they still live together, or share the same
the bed, even though they really don't have to anymore. Instead,
their conversations always stray to safer topics. They talk about the
weather, the food, or last night's movie, or which new boutique is
opening down on the boulevard.
She hates it sometimes, because she thinks she's missing something,
but she can't be sure. Empty words can't fill the void inside her,
yet the void is all she's ever known. Still, she clings to the simple
pleasures, the kind words, the occasional smile.
"This is good. When did you learn to make this?"
Chicken strips and mushrooms on a bed of wild rice. Twilight rays
dancing through crystal goblets and the colour of wine. She cherishes
the inconsequential moments because sometimes she feels she doesn't
need anything besides the warm compliments, the glint of blue eyes,
and the feather light touches across her bare arm.
"I saw it on a television program last week."
"Oh." And they eat.
Dinners are quiet, but not sullen. They're also more than purely
functional, because it's not just about fuelling their bodies. She
feels like they're sharing something, over the table, something
important, unspoken. But silence is something she's had for so long
that she's not sure she knows anything else.
So they eat, and watch each other, even though they've shared so many
dinners that there are no more surprises. Mireille eats by
partitioning her meal into servings of things she likes and things she
doesn't, then trying -- unsuccessfully sometimes -- to save the best
for last. Kirika eats methodically, mechanically mixing bits of
everything on her plate and enjoying the interplay of flavours. She's
also always the first to finish of course. She has a system, simple
and efficient.
Dinner completed, they clear the table together, taking the empty
plates and wineglasses to the kitchen. Without a word, Mireille
busies herself with the dishes while Kirika sets out the tea service.
Their evening ritual is mundane, dull even, but the familiarity gives
them both a sense of peace.
With the kettle on the stove, Kirika wanders back out into the
apartment, towards the large window where two potted plants sit. One
is vibrant and blooming while Mireille's is sickly and yellow. It's
an unofficial game they've been playing for some time now, running out
to buy two identical plants and seeing whose lasts longer. A gentle
hand brushes out the leaves while another reaches for the watering
can. A short sprinkling of water and she's moving her plant to
another window, one where it will be in the morning light tomorrow.
Mireille lost interest about two weeks ago. The Japanese girl smiles
inwardly to herself as the whistling of the kettle calls her back to
her brewing.
She helps Mireille dry the dishes as the tea leaves soak. Today is a
silent day, where they work without talking, the only sounds those of
running water and dishrags squeaking over plates. But even when they
do speak, it's rarely about anything important. "I like this shirt."
"You need a haircut." "We're out of milk."
By the time the dishes are put away, the tea is ready.
They sit by the television, mugs in hand, impassive as the day's
global events play across the screen. Bombings in the middle east,
assassination in South America, all accompanied by the solemn voice of
a well-groomed reporter. The scenes are of murder, chaos, and
destruction. Kirika watches without seeing, and when Mireille speaks,
it is of flowers.
"You're plant seems to be doing much better than mine."
Copper eyes flick to the window, and then to the blonde, where the
faintest smile dances across a knowing gaze. When she looks back to
the screen, the channel has been changed to something blissfully fake.
They're watching an old action movie, with heroes and villains who
both hold their weapons like toys that fire endless rounds.
Yet, despite all the inaccuracies, they both settle into their seats,
and Mireille manages to chuckle at a joke. They're silent for the
rest of the night, even when the movie turns sombre and the hero is
forced to kill his mentor. Kirika stiffens at the shot, but her
breathing remains shallow, and she studiously avoids the questing blue
eyes.
Eventually, the scene ends, and the movie continues. And for the two
of them, it's as if nothing happened, because this is just another one
of those things they never talk about. They don't talk about the day
she knelt crying in a graveyard, the day she wrote her letter, or the
day she took the lives of the only family she had ever known. They
don't talk about blood and violence and death anymore. Instead, they
sip hot drinks and watch television with the stars shining beyond the
apartment windows.
The movie ends a few hours later, and they retire to their room. In
her nightwear, the Japanese girl watches with intent as her companion
brushes out long blonde locks. The quiet simple motions are the same
every night, the repetitive strokes up and down, the clatter of the
hairbrush as it's replaced on the dresser, the click of the light
switch as the apartment becomes bathed in moonlight.
The bed is soft and the sheets are cool against her skin. Another
body joins her, sliding over until blonde hairs are tickling her chin.
Gently, a hand finds its way to her waist, and warm lips brush over
her mouth.
"Goodnight."
They're friends, and maybe a little more, but they don't talk about
that either. It's easier just to take happiness wherever one can find
it and not think about that too much.
"Goodnight Mireille."
"Pleasant dreams." And they hold each other in the dark.
Words are meaningless.
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