Between here and there . . .
(Part 3)

By Emmanuelle

are moments so exquisite, so intense that though they remain unphotographed, unrecorded, they might as well had been.  The prints they carved in our memory scoured full and deep.

In one of her brakes-and-stops, Manta suddenly realized there was something missing in her music. There was no lead. The band was just keeping time with their steps.

 She whirled around, perplexed. The boys and girls behind her, with their copycat game, whirled around with her. The result was complete chaos.  Off-balanced, they tumbled here and there without grace. There was no dropping delightfully to the ground. Neither was there an exaggerated exasperated chorus of Manta! Legs went askew, arms flailed. Teachers’ whistles outraged the ear.

Her music had descended; it had crossed over and had been watching her from just a few steps away.   

Unpredictable as ever, Manta stepped away from the tangled limbs and disgruntled groans. She stepped to him and stopped within an arm’s distance.

There they were, the top of her head reaching only to the top of his tummy. He had tousled brown hair, was six feet tall, fair-skinned and painfully thin except for the hint of firm muscles on his chest and arms. 

A child looking up to a god; a god looking down to a nymph. Click. Imprint.

He:  You graduate from high school this year. 

She: Uhuh. You are not in high school.

He:  Will finish college this year. You are so young to be so weird.

She: Uhuh.

He:  You are also very beautiful.

She: Uhuh. That, too.

He:  And if I am not wrong, the same music plays in both our minds.

She: Uhuh. Weird, isn’t it.

Their lips didn’t get to say what their eyes did. Grow up fast, please, while I wait. Uhuh.  I will.

Then she whirled around, back to her place. To uniforms, socks and lollilops.

Chuck, for that was his name, would play her music from the raised stage at the opposite end, his eyes searching here and there, always settling on her. If not exactly doing that, he kept them closed, trying other variations to her theme.

And Manta would be at the tip’s end of the sun’s ray shafting through the leaves of the trees.

Chuck and his band, for that was his too, would be in her school, thrice a week for nearly a month, up to the promenade and ball. Then he would volunteer his band for Manta’s graduation rites at a ridiculously discounted rate. Only the really dumb and the hopelessly blind would not know why.

That summer, he would arrange to see her when she and her family, or her friends were in the city. He would walk across the street within their plain sight, or he would follow them right behind, his steps keeping time with hers. Sometimes, he would eat at another table in the same restaurant, his eyes always settling on her. To see her was enough. To hear her voice, that would be too much. 

Now and then, their eyes meet. The calm of their music ran smooth waters to their panic. I wait.  Uhuh.  I rush.   

The writer presumes too much, we fear, relying on the reader’s mind’s eyes to supply the details of the rest of this story at this stage. But words can sometimes be so inept, so lacking in spontaneity, in breadth and depth. How can one best describe what is indescribable? One cannot put words to what is felt. One simply feels.

After four years, she is her hollowed self.

(Readers may reach columnist at jingmil@yahoo.com. For past columns, click http://sundaypunch.prepys.com/archives/category/opinion/feelings/
For reactions to this column, click “Send MESSAGES, OPINIONS, COMMENTS” on default page.)

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