We sold Cathy yesterday. She had been an okay girl, but suddenly when the buyer had already paid for her, she refused to be started. My dad tried several times to start her, then she finally did, but—nobody could put her into gear. We tried the first gear and the reverse gear to no avail. I was feeling empty and sad at the same time. There she was: Cathy, my car for more than 10 years, who’s been with me through undergrad and grad schools, through seven different jobs, through two twisted relationships: she refused to budge, she refused to leave me. I, for one, couldn’t bear seeing her out of our gate forever. I was also reminded, for the umpteenth times, of the hugs I shared with N, with Keparat, and with D, inside the tiny compartment of hers. Call me a sentimental cry-baby. Go ahead, because I really am.
My Mom said I should let go. It sounded superstitious to me, but she was partly right. I wasn’t ready to let go. My sister told me to tell her to go. By that time I was feeling sick enough to agree with my sister: I looked at Cath and told her to go. Go, Honey. I thank you for your secure companion, and I’ll miss you.
With that, my bro-in-law finally managed to put her into gear, and drove her out of our gate. Then the buyer took over and drove her away, for good.
My dad said: “Oh my God, she is gone.”
I went into the bathroom, and drowned my pathetic sentimentality in a hot shower.
***
I spent six hours of Sunday with Keparat. We talked so much my head hurt. Especially when he asked me endless variations of the same question. At one point I just shouted for him to stop pressing me about and make me say the same thing for a million times, and he responded oh-so-logically with: “A million times? Not yet. Not even close.” And proceeded to ask me the very same question, again.
Keparat, yes, he is in Jakarta. Even I find it difficult to comprehend. He said I looked different, I looked so small compared to what he remembered. I think I’ve lost 3-4 kilograms since he left for South Pole. He has gained more than 10 kilograms himself, and he has turned into (*gulp*) a gym-enthusiast. Other than the physical difference he remains the same. He chain-smokes the same brand of cigarettes, dresses the same way, wears the same facial expressions, argues stubbornly just like he always does. He inflicts the same feelings in me: a mix of excitement and confusion with a lethal dose of love. His smile is the same. His touch ditto.
I find him as appealing as usual, if not more.
He talks in the same labyrinth-way, surprising me with dead-end questions and remarks, enquiring deeper and deeper into my tangled-logic. He’s more logical than I am and I realised with a start that I should really see the world the way he does, because his is the right way to analyse things.
I just can’t bear the thought that to accomplish exactly that, I have to be even bitter towards life.
Still I was intoxicated that night, I had too much sugary food to sweeten my tongue: I kept my sarcastic words to the minimum, and offered him more nice words than I could usually muster. He too was intoxicated by that brown and that green beverages, he talked on and on about his feelings, every now and then he paused to say: “Don’t believe me, I’m drunk. Forget I said all these,” and I decided to believe his every word anyway, because life is short. Too damn short not to feel happy in his company. Too damn short to be analysing at which exact moment his brains got drowned in alcohol and his words were no longer his. Too damn short for stupid arguments.
He downed my Coke before we left the place.
So when we kissed deeply in front of his gate that night, spending what felt like a second but actually was twenty minutes without pause, all I could taste was the familiar sweetness of Coca-Cola.
(Anytime, anywhere, even in your lover’s tongue, always Coca-Cola).
“Are you real? Are you really here or am I just about to wake up and find out that this is a dream?” I asked him. “I’m really here,” was what he said. And I decided to believe his words, because life is short.
Too. Damn. Short.
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