ILLUSTRATION
SHU-FEN CHEN
STORY
PINFAN
MESSAGE WITHOUT COURAGE, YOU WILL NEVER UNDERSTAND LOVE.
Puomo Books
WITHOUT COURAGE, YOU WILL NEVER UNDERSTAND LOVE.
MESSAGE
Autumn afternoon.
Backpack and earphone in place, she flips through a romantic novel in the bookstore. Fingers following words, determined to flip pages after pages. After one hour, she found two typos and three irregularities. Typos must be hers, missed by proofreading. The irregularities are three phrases she doesn’t remember using. She didn’t.
Maybe the editor changed it.
Backpack made a slight jolt.
She takes out the phone from her backpack, but does not remove her earphones. She knows it’s a text message, not a phone call. No one calls her, and this someone always texts her, at this time of day.
“What are you having for dinner?” words appear on screen . She meticulously replies, “Dumplings, with a friend.” Incoming text.
“Long queue?” “We will avoid the queues.” Without missing a beat, she texts again,
“How’s the flu?” “Much better.”
She has never seen this someone. At first, it was a wrong message. He was trapped in the disarrayed streets in the metro station, and dialed the wrong number when seeking help from his friends.
It was a slow afternoon for her, nothing due from her editors. He sounded desperate in the text, so she assisted him patiently, finding a way out in the labyrinth.
He texted a thank-you message afterwards.
No waiting lines during afternoon hours, but there is still plenty of people at the restaurant.
Service personnel sat them down, and later appeared with steaming dumplings. Cell phone jolted, as she pours vinegar into her saucer dish.
Should be him. It was.
“It’s raining out.” “I have an umbrella.”
Five months and twelve days, she mentally counts.
“You’ve met him?” Head shook.
“You don’t want to meet him?” No shakes or nods.
Breaking status quo means taking a risk. She’s not sure she has that kind of courage in her.
No shakes or nods. Breaking status quo means taking a risk. She’s not sure she has that kind of courage in her. If they both stay underneath, they will both be wet.
“I will take a taxi.” Friend bids her goodbye, and hauls a taxi.
Leaving her in the rain.
“For you.” “Pretty.” He replies.
“Which side?” “East.” “I see it.”
They are looking at a same
Her kitchen is tidy and elegant. The utensils are shiny. An one-stem flower blooms in a vase in the corner. She spreads out a table full of fresh ingredients. Mixes the cooked pasta, with fragrant sauces, and plates the dish.
Napkins, knife, fork, water glass, salad, pasta and spice rack fills the table neatly. She takes a photo and press send. He replied momentarily.
“Looks great!” “Made by me.”
“What do you call it?”
She went to the beach the next day. Weather is fair, and beach is crowded with people. Mostly by the ferry pier, people strolled and food venders lingered.
She took the time to take photos, sending to him one by one.
Ocean waves. Seashells. Assorted pebbles.
Sunday afternoon, at similar time,
Along with it, a photo of a train station.
he texts. “There is a gift that I want to give you.”
“Thanks for the photos.” “You’re welcome.”
“Let’s play a game.” “What game?”
“Scavenger hunt.”
She arrives at the locker, and enters the numbers as passcode to the lock.
In it, a nicely wrapped present. She opened it at home, and found a glass music box.
A tiny ballerina twirls when the box is popped open. He might have picked the most delightful melody, but she wouldn’t know it.
“Got the present,” she types into her phone, “Thank you.”
He hasn’t replied. She waited, in front of her work pile of romance novels, for his message. Watching and waiting, until screen lits, “Hope you like it.”
She does like his present, but she doesn’t know how to like a music box.
Leaning on her table, she puts her hand on the box, and feels the vibration of the box, less the melody. Just the twisting and swirling of the ballerina.
She ponders, imagines and contemplates the kind of music it is.
Just like the romance novel she creates, without actually understanding it.
Twisting and swirling of the ballerina went on ‘til dawn. She ransacks the cabinets for the flashlight, in the darkness. Finds it and presses the button, nothing. There are no batteries inside. She ransacks the cabinet again, to find only one battery. One isn’t enough to lit a flashlight in the dark. She forsakes the flashlight and batteries, and proceed to cross the bleak room to find candles in another cabinet. In the darkness, she trips over the table; something falls and parts of it wound her leg.
It’s broken.
She fumbles to lit the candle
She kneels and knows that the
fervently.
gift will never be restored again.
Under the flickering light, she
Cell phone lit and jolted.
sees the broken music box. Dancer no longer spinning, lays in the corner.
She reads. “Electricity is down in my area, are you ok where you are?”
“Music box broke, sorry.” She sits on the floor watching the pieces.
“It’s okay, could be fixed.”
The box could be fixed, but her hearing abilities could not.
“What if it’s impossible to fix?” “I will give a new one.”
“My hearing is broken, too.”
She presses the send button hastily. A tear drop rolls down her cheek.
“I can’t hear, and it could never be fixed.”
She doesn’t have the courage to wait for his reply. She pressed the shut-down button on her phone, and sits with her head in her knees. All thats left in the empty room, is the wall of books, broken music box, the incompetent dancer and herself.
Rain. It never stopped raining, since that day. Day breaks, and electricity comes back, but her cell phone went on a long halt after that night.
She is writing a melancholy romance story. But the gloominess is too much for her to finish. Manuscript scatters all over the floor, covering pieces of the music box.
Her friend can’t reach her, and visits her despite the rain.
“Are you alright? Why is your cell phone turned off?” asks the friend.
She sits by the corner of the wall, eyes catching the ballet dancer still laying in the corner. Her friend locates her phone and turns it on. She is amazed, “You have a hundred text messages!”
Impossible to fix. My hearing is Can’t hear.
I can’t hear.
Can’t be fixed.
Can’t be fixed.
Impossible to fix. It could never be
Can’t hear. It could never be fixed.
She holds the phone in her hands, full of uncertainty. Maybe he does mind her deficiency. Maybe he doesn’t mind. So many maybe, like the different number combinations on her phone.
For the first time, after so many
Sorry. (delete)
days,
How are you? (delete)
She gathers up her courage to press buttons.
I can’t hear. Do you mind?
Could I met you? (delete, delete, delete)
Could I meet you? (delete, delete, delete) Could I meet you? Could I meet you Could I meet yo Could I meet y Could I meet Could I mee
She finds the vanishing courage, and is ready to press, when the phone jolts.
Could I me Could I m Could I Could
It is he.
Could I meet you?
They agree to meet in front of a 24-hour bookstore. Still raining that day. Plaza in front of the bookstore is filled with passing pedestrians. She holds an umbrella in one hand, and phone in the other, waiting without her earphone. Appointed hour approaches, jolt
He puts the phone away, and attempts to do sign language clumsily.
“I learned this, but not very good at it.” She laughs, holding back her tears. “You can speak, I read lips.” She spoke, not quite articulately, but
Plaza is still filled with passing pedestrians.
Rain stopped, and sunlight passes thru the buildings, blanketing the city.
W I T H O U T CO U R AG E, YO U W I L L N E V E R U N D E R S TA N D LO V E.
MESSAGE ILLUSTRATION
STORY
SHU-FEN CHEN
PINFAN
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