Because she was friends, or she thought she was friends with someone who clearly communicated to her in the right syntax, “I’m really easy to get along with once you begin to worship me”.
She giggled. And she giggled alone. Clearly she did not get the syntax.
It began ruff, the friendship, rising and falling, with the tides of life. But thanks to the laughs and a few good deeds and pizzas and beer, they tagged along, sailing together. The ship had more to it than what met the eye, it of course had other people, pizzas, a few good laughs, but it also had emotions, wrong deeds, wagging tongues and middle fingers, backstabbing and more! "You know what else did not meet the eye?" she asked herself. No one spoke. No one was listening. She spoke anyway.
"the ship itself." She paused to hold back a sob. She clumsily picked a hand and wiped off the tear that rolled down her left cheek. But she knew she shouldn't stop talking. What if no one was around to listen? She always had the choice of talking to the walls, someone might just hear. Or appreciate. Or adopt her philosophy.
It was difficult to speak with her throat knotting. There was the risk of not sounding her lively self. There was also the risk of not sounding like the pretty protagonist of that movie that made it to the top of the charts. But it did not matter.
"because it existed, in beating hearts, in rising beer mugs, in shared pizzas, in STD phone calls. Sometimes it lasts; sometimes it loses itself under the gigantic wave of hopelessness, hatred, disparity and jealousy. And sometimes, leagues. The superiority complex loomed over my part of the ship like a huge, dark cloud. Very dark. And as it kept getting darker, the silver lining also went into hiding!"
This time she couldn't hold the sob in. tears and weeping followed. Well, at least she isn't a robot. She has emotions. And after a while, she picked a notebook with her picture on the cover. She looked at herself, examining every feature, clothes and that deep dimple on her cheek. She looked up, into the mirror. No, the girl looking back at her didn't quite look like the girl in the picture.
"I’m not used to seeing you like this" she addressed the mirror.
"you, I only get to see you in the mirror when I’m dressed well." She spoke to the picture.
She touched her cheek where the tear had rolled. Her skin felt slightly wrinkled and dry. There was no depression.
"the depression moved downward, it settled in my heart." She mumbled. “
“Look I’m pointing to my cleavage” she chuckled.
She turned to an empty page and picked a neon orange sketch from her drawer.
She doodled an orange. Clearly, what else could be more apt? An orange with an orange pen.
Then she circled a pair of eyes, triangled a nose, curved lips, oveled cheeks. And then she knew what was missing.
Her spirits needed lifting up. The depression had to move back up to her cheek, its original home. She pressed her nib down to make the deepest depression, almost tearing into pages.
Her little doodle was ready; it only needed something to say.
She put her neon orange pen back and picked her favorite black pen that looks like the key to a Mercedes. She used it for special occasions, and the ink was almost draining out.
She picked a spot under the bottom lip and wrote
"it's just one of those days when old happy thoughts remind you that happier times are gone. Ug these thoughts behave like... like proud, old aunties who are proud of their rich children who are settled in the first world cities with cleaner beaches, and they own fishing boats. I’ll find more ships, for fishing and more!"
She turned back to her picture and smiled. There was no compulsion to smile; it burst forth from the soul. Yes, she looked like the girl who she is used to seeing in the mirror.
“Huh! The eternal sucker of an optimist in me is just that – a sucker! This too shall pass, but it still hurts. Very very much.”
She curled up, trying hard to feel like a fat cat in her basket. She tried imagining that her only current problem is a hungry stomach, because the milk was fermenting. In reality, she hated yogurt.
