Dating : Move On From Twenty

She’s humming when she leans against the chair, the sound of crinkling wrapper afterward. She digs in on her sandwich, munching on it quietly as I glance up at her before ducking my head down so she doesn’t notice. Thankfully, I doubt she cares I’m there. I look back at my sketches as I pack my pencils. There’s still a good half an hour before I have to leave, but I’m leaving away.

“Do you have anything to eat?” She calls as I stand up. I glance at her fingers wrapped around her sandwich as my throat, too dry to say anything, tightens up. I end up staring at her from her fingers to her face, not particularly unique or familiar. It’s as if she’s the stranger that passes by me every day, just someone in the midst of people. “If you don’t,” She pulls out a box, “I’ve got some extra fruits. You can have some,” She opens it to rows of apple slices and pieces of tangerines already peeled.

“I’m fine,” I mutter quietly as shuffle away before she can say a word, my throat constricting and my face red. I’m at the park entrance when I realize I’ve left my pencils behind. It doesn’t help that my head’s still spinning from today’s encounter.

I… I don’t think I remember her face anymore.

Was her hair cut short? Were her eyes wide behind her thick glasses? What about her face? Did it curve into a point at her chin, and her nose smaller or larger?

I can’t remember, and it bothers me to no end as I trudge back to grab my pencils. “You forgot this,” I look up to see her smile, an ordinary smile, as she extends out her hand with my pencils inside.

“T-thank you,” I whisper beneath my breath as I take it, shoving it inside my backpack.

“You draw?” She laughs, “That’s pretty amazing,”

“Uh… y-yeah,” I can’t help but stutter, my hands can’t stop shaking. Cold sweat drips off my hands despite the fall chill that breaths throughout the park, I’m about to drop the sketchbook in my hand. She looks down with a tingle of a frown on her face, shoving it away with a smile when she looks up again. “I see,” She nods, quieter this time, the cheer almost disappearing entirely, “That’s nice,”

She turns around, her hair drifting with the wind, definitely cropped short, as she turns away. “Um-m!” I run next to her, “T-thank you,”

“Don’t worry about it,” She waves without looking behind her, her steps tapping on the ground as she walks.

“W-what’s your n-name?”

“Me?” Her hand drops to the ground and I wonder for a split second if she’s not going to answer. Instead, she turns around the wind brushing her hair almost furiously as it tugs at her hair to covers her face before flying out.

“Call me Mrs. Isabella,” She grins, and this one, I raise my phone up to her. I can’t help it, just from the way sunlight casts on her to the petals that fall from cherry trees that match her white shirt and blue jeans. The wind freezes just enough to get a clear picture when I snap, a smile hinting at my face when I set my phone down.

But I guess despite everything, I wanted to capture that smile the most; it’s a grin that lights up her eyes, that brought a smile to a bland face. The smile made her face…

A little more memorable, I guess.

“Is it a good photo?” She asks, leaning in close enough for me to smell the hint of an old apartment wafting from her clothes. I pull up the picture on my phone, and her face lights up, though there’s not any more flair in it anymore. “Man, that looks amazing,” She says as she digs through her purse for her phone.

When she pulls it out, she asks, “Can you send that to me?”

I give a small nod and she hands me her phone. I sent her the picture as she notices the time with a gasp. “I got to go,” She says as her hands pull her phone from my grasp, running through the park as her sneakers pound the floor. I look at the photo again, and it is good, but it’s like an everyday photo. There’s nothing that makes it different from another picture, she’s not ugly, but she’s not beautiful either. From the way she’s dressed to her born face, she’s just average.

She looks happy in here though, so I guess that counts for something, the way her eyes finally sparkle with a light of a child.

I drop my phone into my back pocket as I trail up the sidewalk and stop at the nearest crosswalk. I wonder if I should move to a different spot, somewhere no one would find me.

In the end, I decide not to.

***

She’s there the next day around noon, a bento box in her hand. I glance at the rice, meats, and vegetables crammed inside. Despite its wonderful smell, most of the stuff she brings out is strangely cheap, from the bag she carries, seams worn and loose at the ends to the box made from cheap plastic.

Yet still…

“Do you have anything to eat?” She asks and hands her box over, “I made a bit extra by accident,” I shake my head slightly and she bites into a piece of meat with a shrug. I look back at my pencil sketches, but they don’t help relax me like usual.

I can’t help but erase lines over and over, sighing in my head. She glances over once, turning away to watch the trees, dripping raindrops that splatter on the ground, it’s sound a steady off-beat rhythm that skips a beat ever so often.

I stare blankly at the page, annoyance causing me to scribble at it endlessly, a single line that circles on. The ground catches my eyes, no reason in particular, but vision travels upward to her sneakers, wavering at the seat beside her.

My pencil lifts off the page as I flip to a new page, drawing slowly before it moves faster, thin shapes merging into one.

I don’t why I wanted to draw her, but I think a bit is because she’s humming beneath her breath, biting into a chicken melting into the scenery behind her seamlessly.

Maybe it’s because she looks so peaceful right there.

“What do you like drawing?” She asks suddenly and I pull up the book so quickly she glances at it curiously.

I stare at her, my mouth opened in silence as she waits, chewing on a strawberry slowly. “Then can you show me?” She leans in, and I slowly pull my sketchbook away, flipping to the first page and showing her. “Ooh.” She grins as she takes it from me, “These are good!” I want to take it back from her, but I can’t make out a word, but also I…

Really liked her smile when she saw them. I liked the small noises she made as she held them up at a time, or how she’d show me like she drew them.

“Look at this one!” She points to my landscape I drew two years ago, “This one might be my favorite so far.” Her teeth show when she sees the fast sketch of a cat, “My neighbor had one almost just like this when I was just in high school. I used to feed her treats without them knowing. She was so confused when her cat grew a couple of pounds!”

I reach to grab it back when she sees my earlier frustration, and on the next page her, her hands holding the bento box gently as she holds a chopstick to her mouth, staring aimlessly into the distance.

“This one’s me, isn’t it?” She says, “It’s too good. But draw me a little prettier next time.”

“Why?” I ask as she hands it back to me.

“Every girl likes to be prettier at least once in their life, it’s just like boys wanting to be strong.”

“Okay,” I stare at the sketch for a moment before dropping the book in my bag.

“Really? You got to show me then.” She grins, and I nod before leaving, a tight hand on the strap.

I snapped open the light and twirled the pencil in my hands that night. No matter how hard I try, I can’t imagine her any different than how she looked there. Drawing her prettier was like trying to fit a wig that was just a size too large or too small.

I shut the light just before one, leaving the sketch of her that afternoon as my only one.

I never tried to draw her again and she never asks for my sketchbook again.

Mainly because I never brought my sketchbook there again. Instead, it was lunch, whatever it would be.

So, we talk idly, anything from the weather to animals, about things that never mattered enough for either of us to care. Strangely enough, I found I liked the days that snowed and rained to talk to her the most.

There was just something so comfortable in talking as it rains outside, wind splashing mist onto my skin and the shine on the leaves when the sun comes out and the rain lightens to a drizzle, wintery air like clouds above the lake.

***

“Do you hear?” I freeze as I listen to the girls whispering behind me. It’s almost odd how far apart we are, but I can hear them just fine.

“Oh my god, I think I’ve seen her before, she goes to the park at noon, doesn’t she?”

“Doesn’t she sit at the gazebo? Like the one that’s hidden in the canopy of trees?”

“I never went there, but doesn’t Shoko go there?”

“Hey,” One of the girls calls at me, “Shoko.”

I take in a breath, and breath out, slowing down my already racing heartbeat. Slowly, I turn around, staring into her wide eyes.

She flips her phone to me, “Do you know her?”

It’s a picture of Mrs. Isabella, but she looks different.

She looks like a gangster, her hair cropped styled with one side bald, piercings dot her ears at least five on each side. She stares at the camera with a confident pose, a smirk playing on her lips as she stands on a motorcycle. She’s looks fine in what’s she’s wearing, even though it exposes her skin an uncomfortable amount.

Maybe it’s because we’re nearing the end of December, but I’ve never seen without being covered from head to toe. Even when she did wear t-shirts, there’s a long sleeve under it.

“W-what about it?” I stutter and she sets her phone down.

“Didn’t you hear? She turned herself in for illegal drug selling. The hearing’s today,”

I almost choke when I hear her say violent, but who was I to judge anyway?

It’s not like I’ve known her every long.

I really haven’t, but still.

I pack up my bags and run through the door right as the teacher walks in, carrying a binder in hand. I wonder if he sees me as I race out the building, but I’m too far to hear him. I don’t stop even as the sky darkens with storm clouds and the first drops of waterfall as the clouds cry their tears. I don’t stop until I’ve reached the gazebo and see her there, staring up at the rain, rocking herself gently as she hums a simple tune. Her back turned to me, and I’m frozen in place as I listen to her song, the soft melody she hums without care. It’s a beautiful tune, floating notes that sound louder than the thundering sound of rain as it splatters. She sings it well, growing louder gently before falling back down like ocean waves.

No matter how long I watch her, she’s always so peaceful.

“I-it’s really nice,” I mutter quietly, standing under the roof of the gazebo watching her turn around slowly. She grins before she knows who’s behind her, not reckless, just not worried about who’s behind her.

I wish I could have that kind of trust for other people too.

I wish I was a little like her. Actually, I wish I was her.

“Hi,” Mrs. Isabella pushes up her thick glasses as she notices me, “Aren’t you supposed to be in class?” I move to sit next to her, shaking my head. Her eyes trail back to the rain, and we sit there in silence for a long while, savoring in the sounds of rain as it pours, the faded noise in the background made up of cars honking, trailing bicycles, and the thumping feet of people as they rush away from the rain.

“You know,” She whispers, “I find peace in the rain,” She holds out her hand, feeling the cold wind as droplets of water fall onto it.

“W-why?”

I want to ask you something.

“I don’t know,” She notes after a moment. Her hand retracts from the rain and she turns to me, “It’s just really peaceful I guess.”

There’s something I want to know.

The words never form right in my mind.

“What do you find peace in?” She asks, and a thought pops in my mind.

My father.

“Sketching,” I answer after a moment, and she smiles.

“That’s a good one. Are you going to find a career in that major?” She looks through her bag before she looks up.

“Actually…” I pause and she looks up at me.

What am I babbling about?

“They s-say you were s-selling drugs.” I stutter, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” She whispers as her eyes flicker to the floor. They don’t come up as she continues, “I’m used to it anyway.”

Even then, she still looks so peaceful. Watching her makes a thought pop up in my head.

She doesn’t need to be at peace to so still.

I think she’s just accepted the things she can’t change. The way she stares at the floor makes me wonder if the reason when she’s so still is that she’s just given up on trying.

Then is the reason why my thoughts circle in my brain like vultures is because I can’t give up.

“I d-don’t think you did anything wrong,” I admit, and she breaks into tears, and I scramble to find some tissues in my bag, “I-I’m sorry. I-I won’t s-say a-anything next t-time…” My stutter becomes worse she tries to wipe away her tears, my voice tightens in my throat as she shakes her head. I had her some tissues and she takes them, wiping at her tears that become even worse.

“It’s not that…” She mumbles, “It’s just been a long time since someone’s had faith in me.”

Her words seem to say, ‘I can’t but faith in me in no one does it first.’

Is it because I can’t believe in myself because no one believes in me?

“Can-” I swallow tersely, “Can I k-know what happened?”

“I guess,” She does a halfhearted shrug, “It’s just a stupid mistake of mine. Back when I was in college, your age actually, I fell in love. I gave up a lot just to be with him, and it wasn’t until I married and moved in with him, I realized my mistake. At the time, I loved him with all my heart, so I don’t think I saw it. He did illegal drug trading, and-

People do stupid things when they have faith.”

“I’m sorry,”

“Don’t be.” She does her best to smile, but it doesn’t even touch her lips, “It wasn’t your fault, it’s mine.”

I pull out my sketchbook without a second thought, finding the page hidden in the back, holding up a folded page. I hand it to her as I explain, “It’s something I-I drew a long time ago.”

She opens it in silence, a soft smile that grazes her lips. “Is… This your family?” She asks after a moment and I nod.

“My d-dad got lung cancer back in m-middle school.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” She says after a moment.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“My mom used to teach me vocal lessons,” She says, “Her business shut down a few years ago, but that’s something I want to do.”

She grins with her fist pumped in the air, laughing like a child, “I’m going to open lessons and get so many students I’ll be famous. That’s why I came here.”

I see her grin like an idiot as she hurries to stand up, muttering about time, and looking through her bag as people watch and stare. Whispers beget more as she nears the city. People glare at her as others turn away when she goes in their direction. Her head holds high when she walks, she can see the eyes that ignore her, and the ones that don’t, I find respect in that.

I find respect for almost everything she does.

I turn and walk back to my apartment, locking the door when I enter, breathing a sigh as I turn up the news. I look up to see her court case, Mrs. Isabella stands there quietly, shifting her feet, and her eyes near the ground. I glance at her; she looks bare without her bag and smile.

It’s four in the morning when I hear my phone ring. I pick up the call and hear Mrs. Isabella’s tired voice through the phone. She sounds beyond exhausted.

“Hey, Shoko.” Despite the way her words droop after she says them, I feel like I can hear her trying to project a smile through the phone.

“Hey, how did it go?” It sounds loud on the other side of the phone like she’s in a crowded subway.

“More or less fine,” She breathes after a moment, “I’m not sure what happened, but I’m not going to jail and I’m free of charges for the time being.”

“G-great!” I sit up, “Want to get a drink sometime to celebrate?” She laughs at this, her words coming out quick and desperate like she’s having trouble breathing.

“I’m at Tamakio Station, can I stay over at your house just for tonight? The station’s closed and I have to walk a good thirty minutes through the snow. We don’t have a subway there, just the bus. I’m really sorry about this Shoko.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I tell her, “I’ll meet you outside Tashiro in a few minutes.” She hangs up the call after a dozen thank-you’s and apologizes. Grabbing the coat, I slip the phone into a pocket and step out into the whirling wind and snow.

The snow today is worse than normal, whipping wind throwing ice in a frenzy as I hurry my way to the station. I wait for her outside the ticket entrance, and she shows up right on time, her face pale and cheeks red, trembling and shivering with cold as I notice she’s only wearing a light jacket. “Don’t you have other clothes?” I ask her as I lend her the jacket, “It’s an awful day to only wear a light jacket,”

It looks as though she’s walked through the snow to skip a few stations.

She takes it without a word, wrapping its warm sleeves around her. “Why did you skip stations?” I ask her, “I m-mean… sorry, I don’t mean t-to pry-”

She shakes her head, “It’s fine. You’re young, it’s a gift to be curious.” Talking leaves her shaken, and her words come out small and meek. It’s a short walk back home, and there, I boil a pot of water, heating two mugs of tea, sitting down on her opposite. After an hour in the warm apartment and steaming tea, she’s more or less herself again.

“Is it g-guilt?” I say as she downs yet another cup, “Why you chose to walk outside instead of i-inside the station?” She doesn’t answer, pouring more and watching it slosh up the sides of the cup. Her words are soft and gentle when she speaks again.

“You sure are sharp,” She sighs, “That’s good. That’s a really good thing. You know, you don’t look like you don’t know how to talk to other people, but you’re quite the chatterbox. And besides- there’s always something about you that makes people want to spill their secrets,”

No, it’s your voice, it’s your voice that makes people want to go on and on.

“S-still,” I blurt out, “I-I think you deserve someone better than t-that, Mrs. Isabella,”

She doesn’t speak up with her mind but stays quiet. A nod’s all I get to realize she’s heard me. I go to roll out a futon and we both fall asleep afterward.

It’s late when I wake up, almost near afternoon, and I notice the smell that wafts from the kitchen.

It’s absolutely delicious.

Since coming to college, I haven’t tasted any of my mother’s cooking, nor did I learn to make anything. Just having the scent of fresh food on the table makes me wonder if I’m going to cry. “I bought a few things from the supermarket,” Mrs. Isabella says as she carries the pan over to set something on the table. There’re two bowls of rice, a pot of miso soup, fresh salmon, and a tamagoyaki.

“I noticed there’s only instant stuff,” She points to the fridge with a huff, “You’re growing. How could you just eat that stuff?”

Thankfully, my mother insisted I bring a few bare minimum cooking utensils when I came to college.

“You’re going to cry, aren’t you?” Her laughter echoes throughout the room, “Go and wash up. Then, come and eat as much as you’d like.”

I sit down, tasting cooked fish in my mouth.

It really is delicious.

“I’m going to go to class in a-an hour,” I say while looking up at the clock, “What about you?” She looks up at the clock, nodding at the time.

“I’m going back to my apartment too-” She says raising her chopsticks at me, “It’s instant ramen for dinner isn’t it?”

“U-uh…”

She sighs as she sets away her chopsticks. “I’ll come with some curry,” She says, “Is that alright with you?”

A smile creeps up my face as I nod.

“Eat more, alright?” She pinches my cheeks like I’m five again, and surprisingly, I don’t mind. I wash up the bowl as she collects her stuff, trudging away tiredly as I walk to the subway earlier than needed.

It’s fine though.

I’m going to draw that picture of Mrs. Isabella.

Read the rest here: https://www.wattpad.com/995282947-move-on-from-twenty