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?Avory,? the folded paper reads. As they unfold it, the note shakes with their hands. As they read, the words blur together until the page is just one large inkspot.
?I can't do this anymore.? They crumple the paper in their fists, squeezing it until it is just a small ball, then huck it at the wall. It passes the window, where sunlight is just beginning to pour in, and lands in the darkest corner of the bedroom The bedroom that used to be shared.
?There's just no fixing it.? They sniff. Wipe the tears from their cheeks. Move to the closet to begin their day. The accordion door nearly topples as it is shoved open, and they pause. Half the contents are missing. Not even a hanger or loose sock is left. They pull free their outfit of the day, then close the accordion door.
?This may seem sudden to you, but I've been thinking about it for a while.? Even the bathroom is half empty. One toothbrush in the holder, one stick of deodorant, two empty drawers. The medicine cabinet holds only vitamins for one now. Even the mirror looks bare, completely devoid of all the notes that had been left over the years. They get dressed, comb their hair, brush their teeth, and keep their eyes on the freshly-cleaned sink.
?We should've known this never would have worked.? The hall to the kitchen is the same, the photos all neat in the frames, staring at them, mocking them, as they go by. The notes on the coffee pot are gone. Perfectly clean squares in the dust are the only hint of them ever being there. Grounds are poured into the top, a button is pressed, the pot begins to whir.
?Remember what my mother said?? The orange tabby winds around their legs, looking up and mewing. His dry food pellets are poured into a dish and set on the floor by the back door. A frying pan is retrieved from under the counter, and the fridge is opened. Their hand reaches for the soy milk that is no longer there. It falters, then shifts over to the carton of eggs.
?I've known you my entire life, so believe me when I say this wasn't an easy decision.? The coffee pot bubbles twice more, then falls silent. They pull two mugs from the cupboard, stare at them for several moments, then return one to the shelf Sugar and cream are dumped into the single mug, then hastily covered by the freshly brewed coffee. They take several sips of the scalding liquid, reveling in the sweet taste.
?I feel like we could do so much better apart.? Eggs are cracked into the frying pan, and bread is inserted into the toaster. The tabby jumps onto the counter, whiskers twitching as he nears the hot stove. He is not removed. A cooked piece of egg is flicked off the spatula in his direction. He chases it across the counter. Three plates are taken down from the cabinet. One is put back. The china plate with blue roses around the edge receives two fried eggs and two slices of toast. The square plate made of green plastic gets one egg and a slice of toast with peanut butter and no crust.
?Please tell Molly I love her.? The coffee in the mug is half gone, and a cup of orange juice is placed with the plate on the dining table. A kiss is pressed to the forehead of the sleepy five-year old, who got dressed all by herself this morning. She pets the cat, who sits at her feet begging for more eggs. She talks about the dreams she had and what tricks she'd like to teach the cat. She has preschool in the afternoon, but the morning is theirs. Breakfast is their routine, just for the two of them. She's used to her other parent being there by bedtime, and doesn't ask about the absence. She sneaks bites of toast to the tabby, but she isn't very secretive. Her giggles give her away.
?Please don't try to contact me directly.? Once the plates are empty, they do the dishes together. It's more like war of the bubbles, but everything gets cleaned. Later they'll work together to pack her snack and prepare her backpack. They move to the living room, the cat's back legs dangling from the girl's arms. This is part of the routine, too. It wouldn't be a normal day without cartoons teaching the two of them how to read. During a commercial break, where a pair of siblings are shown playing on a swing set, the girl mentions wanting a little brother. She gets a smile and a ruffle of her curls in return, before she is reminded how much the tabby loves his catnip toy being thrown.
?Please don't do anything reckless? Driving to the preschool is second-nature. 45 miles per hour, two stop signs, one traffic light. They say goodbye at the classroom door, and she's gone for the next four hours. They're supposed to run errands next. It's routine. The highway is empty this time of day, everyone at work or school. Nobody minds when they pull over to the side of the road. The car idles, exhaust fumes still spewing from the tailpipe. A cardboard box with the word ?sorry' scrawled on its side is in the ditch. Normally they wouldn't have stopped. Normally they would have stayed in their car. The box holds two scrawny kittens and a bag of cat food. Their fur is sticking up every which way. The kittens seem grateful in the heated car, and one of them finds its way to the dashboard. It watches the highway zooming past them.
?You should try to carry on as normal as possible.? She names them after her favorite book characters. They each officially have about four names total. Grass and Pebble are what she calls them when she forgets. The tabby is reproachful at first, but the kittens teach him their games. All three nap together on the sofa. The girl draws a mural on the wall while waiting for dinner. It gets taped off like a masterpiece in a museum.
?Remember that I will always love you,? The girl asks questions over a dinner of macaroni and cheese, eaten with dinosaur spoons. She doesn't wonder why it's just the two of them. Often it is the case. She wonders why she can't have red juice in a grown-up glass, why she can't bring her brand-new toys to the dinner table. In answer, she gets her own glass of grape juice, her Barbie doll and He-Man figure can have their own plate, and she gets two scoops of ice cream.
They smile at the girl, one full of fondness and love, and anything else they can think of. No matter how lonely they feel now, they will always have her to keep them company.
It was eight forty five. I had finally finished my night shift and crossed the never ending traffic to get back to my little studio.
My studio is located on the 22nd floor of an old building in the town's center. It's walls are covered with paintings of the passengers that told me their extraordinary stories each night. My chisel is in the middle of the room and my flat on the ground bed lying in the far left corner by the large windows.
I don't want to forget any of the people I get to meet during those interesting hours. Therefore as I come back from work as a night shift taxi driver every morning, I pick up my brush and paint the face of the most interesting passenger of that night.
The magical thing about late night hours is that everybody is honest. Everybody is their truest selves. They feel free in the dark. As if no eyes can see them. They believe that they are the only ones who aren't asleep under the dim light of the moon. Like nobody else exists. They let their imaginations run wild. Their inner children came out. And their tongues started moving non-stop.
Some were out due to terrible circumstances. Some were there because pain had forced them to. Some were insomniacs. Some had a deadline to meet and others were simply drunk.
I guess the night acts as a shelter for the heartaches that don't belong anywhere else. Or I could better say, pain that the day can not contain.
Not that I don't enjoy all these stories of strangers that I wouldn't even notice if they walked me by during the day, but if I absolutely didn't have to, I wouldn't be working night shifts as a driver. It's tiring me both physically and mentally. And sometimes it hits the right emotional cord and the melody of pain keeps playing for days to follow.
I study arts. My classes are mostly in the evening because of my work. And in the mornings I paint.
Today's painting is fairly easy to work on but the story behind it is difficult to comprehend.
The masked figure. Yes, that's what I'd like to call this one and in a few hours it will be another painting on the wall of my studio joining the other 37 people. Yes, this is the 38th story I want to tell through a painting. And at painting number 50, I will be exhibiting them all at the central town hall. I landed a contract after picking up the town's mayor on one occasion. And yes, his face models one of my paintings as well. But that is for another time to tell.
I hang my keys by the door and take off my jacket. After loosening my tie, I take off my hair band and let my long, brown wavy hair run wild after being trapped in a low bun all night. I slip out of my uniform and undo the chest flattening strip, so that my breasts can breathe.
I put on an oversize white T-shirt, that isn't so white from all the paint, alongside my underwear. As always I start by writing one sentence on the back of the canvas before I start painting. One sentence from that night that keeps ringing in my ears. That's how I remember the details of their stories.
?I'm tired of this mask. But I hate the face hiding behind it.?
That is what the masked figure said at some point with their harsh yet feminine voice. I couldn't quite tell if they were a man or a woman. Their hands were tired and the skin on them was rough. They had a slender body and were wearing a baggy yellow suit with red polka dots.
White slick back hair with one earring on the left. And face fully covered with a black velvet mask with two tiny nostril holes, one little mouth hole and two small holes for the eyes through which you could barely tell that the color of those tired eyes were grass green.
I couldn't quite make out how they put the mask on either. Was it glue or was it some kind of tape? Because there were no strings attached. And strangely enough that soft velvet never fell off or even moved a little on their face.
We received the call at three and it was my turn to pick up the next passenger. I arrived at the small bar that I could hardly locate even though I was using one of the best navigation systems. The masked figure walked out of a tiny door. They had to lean down as the door's size was half of their height. They gently opened the backseat door and walked into the cabin.
?To 44th Avenue, but stop by the Skyline Bridge first. I have something to do.? They said.
I nodded because I didn't know if I should say ?Yes, Sir.? Or ?Yes, Ma'am.?.
They looked outside the window the entire drive to the bridge. No words came out of their mouth and not a change was made in their sitting position.
What heavy sorrow was this human carrying in their deepest sensory parts?!
?Where would you like me to pull over?? I asked as we approached the bridge.
?Here is good. Don't get out of the car. I will be back in 30 minutes.? They said.
?I'm tired of this mask. But I hate the face hiding behind it.? They muttered to themselves. But I had learned to be so observant that I could hear the dimmest sounds that would come out of a passenger's mouth.
?So tired!? They repeated. But this time louder.
They tucked their wrinkled hands in the pockets of their big pants and walked to the Skyfall Bridge. I could tell from their gait that they suffered from a disease called Parkinson's. A disease characterized by muscle stiffness, rigidity, hand tremor and slow shuffling gait. It affects men mostly as I had read in the health magazine so I could assume the masked figure was a he. But the feminine mask over their rough voice and slender body indicated otherwise. So I decided to stick to ?they?.
30 minutes later, not a minute extra, not a minute less, they were back in the cabin and ready to go home.
?Thank you. To my final destination please.? They said and put their trembling hands together.
This was the first time that a person's story was so foggy in front of my eyes. But when a person's voice is overridden by silence, you know the size of their pain. And some things are better left unsaid at those times.
I let the masked figure remain as a mystery. But the eyes that were lit by the street lamps at times left a huge mark in my head.
I couldn't help it but listen to the sound the car's tires made and leave the figure to sink in something that was between them and a probable memory.
I finished the painting by adding the final touches to the eyes. I then got up and looked down the window. Allowing the breeze of the air to play with my hair, I wondered whose story I will be a listener to in the night to come.
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