Blueberry Jackfruits
Somewhere between pesto and fish fillet, we found our voices, although we never found our own way back. She came out, smiled; she went back in. She sent something out, came back, went out and that was all.“You were expecting something else?” Q retorted, not quite unusually quick on the uptake.
“No, I mean…”
His eyebrows shot up.
“Well, yeah, I suppose so,” I stuttered. “She’s leaving and all that, isn’t she? We never said goodbye.”
He looked at me thoughtfully. “This isn’t about closure and what-not, is it?” He smirked. “Last time you’ve been there, you found out that that wasn’t what you needed at all.”
I shrugged and said nothing, struggling to have something that would make the slightest of sense. He began finishing the jackfruit smoothie he bought a couple of corners back.
“No,” I said finally.
He put the cup down, looking at me more thoughtfully.
“You’re right,” I admitted. “It isn’t about closure.”
I sighed. “I found out what I wanted. Well, you can say I always knew what it is; but I guess it’s already too late.”
So they say cooking is an art; human relationships, if not more so. It’s complicated, I guess; there are times you pass something up for something else, and you’re suckered in only until the joke’s finally on you. While you’re too busy thinking of having something, or needing something, there’s obviously something else beneath it all. Usually, it simply becomes a matter of how long it would take to figure it out. It is how it is with sauces, with the delicate mixtures of herbs and spices that sometimes do something more beyond accentuating the flavors of the food they come with. Sometimes, if not usually, lives become the same; smiles or laughs or playful pats on the back only coming to mask the real essence of what we’ve become.
Things are scarier now – and it isn’t exactly the mutant custards we sampled back. Valediction forebodes, and yet if nothing else, I've only sat back, waiting for things to unfold for themselves as though they would. I was foolish enough once, walking away when I never wanted that at all; she was still there when I came back, although things have obviously never been the same again. I should never make that mistake again, I thought, but now it’s her turn to walk away, writing is the only excuse I have to cope. There was something else I could have done, but I never did it.
posted by Dexter @ 3:03 PM
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