Seven Years in a Tuesday

The kids laugh their hearts out, that's the way we end each class, I tell them silly stories. We are so happy. They say bye and they file out and I remain in the room to pack my books and the silence resonates. I walk to my car. I stand in the parking lot for awhile, the breezy freshness after a day of boiling rain makes me hopeful, the sun retires before me, behind two silhouettes of trees, streaks of orange pink and purple brush across the sky. The hydro lines dip and stretch into the distance and I confirm once again I am hopeful.

I would tell her right here, right now, for all the pebbles are in place, I could fall back into this scene, I could cry here until I go blind and then tomorrow is a new day, a new start, and we move on. I think so simply. It's the only way to think. Seven years is a long time. How funny that I choose to stamp this, on a casual and merely beautiful Tuesday evening, and for the rest of my life attach special meaning to this date? I dial the number. I can't reach her.

I don't know when I'll call her again, probably when the pebbles are in place again, whenever that is. I've been pensive for seven years. What is another day, another month, another year? It wouldn't hurt as much if I were hurting alone.

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I spend the night in my favourite teahouse. I settle with a glass of lychee bubble tea in the corner table looking through the window into a dry and crisp evening, now completely dark. The decorative tree in the teahouse has sparkle lights on it that reflects off the window so it looks like there are sparkle lights both inside and outside and I'm hovering somewhere in between. Teahouses like this tend to play the perfect songs on perfect evenings.

窗外陰天了　音樂低聲了　我的心開始想你了...

A malfunctioning billboard flashes incessantly, and occasionally, a young couple walks by. I seem to only notice couples these days. Tonight would have been the perfect night.