Sometimes, the way I remember people are by remembering what they do unconsciously. The way she bit her lips when working on something important or exciting, the way he pauses, smiles and sighs a short laugh before giving advice or opinions, the way he plays with his big chunky metal rings when thinking about important things.
It became something I remember clearly about you as well. The way you digest your surroundings or other people’s thoughts and opinions, but never a song. A song requires closed eyelids and little dances. You would gaze into a far away void and you will slowly blink, with your hand covering your chin and your lips, your knuckles sits just under your nose.
Every day I get to see you is fruit day, never a Lotus Flower or a Lift, but a Karolina. When things go south, an I promise. But we both know how bad I am with promises, especially when it involves not running away. Not a neon light in a dark room, but a soft yellow table lamp and a well-lit balcony looking out to Cannes. A French Bossa Nova evening, celebrating life and its grandeur, sipping a cup of Jasmine Tea in a tight suit. Can I keep up? I’m a Hong Kong alleyway, celebrating life in a Cinderella manner. I don’t look good in suits, I’m afraid. Sharp and smart is never my fortè. I can feel myself turning into clichès, and it’s not good enough to be served in your silver plate.
My only pair of shoes don’t go well with my dress, young sir. Will it ever be good enough to catch a young man’s eyes and inspire him to go fight the world or build a house? The kind of slow blink that is followed by a hair flip that drives people insane is the things I can never get right. Can my Murakami references impress you? It’s all I can think about sometimes. It has always been our duty to be pretty enough for a song, be smart enough for a book, be beautiful (in a multidimensional manner) enough to a question.
“Mau kemana, Nona?”
I’m a background in a neon-lit bar, and the gentleman in front of me ordered whiskey.
