your gaze sets us apart

we meet coincidentally on the streets one day. it’s been years.

your imploring gaze gets increasingly intensified as you scrutinize my appearance- my laid-back, lazy, relaxed air does not impress you, nor does my favourite floppy hat, but only seem to irritate you in some childish manner. my flimsy cotton sundress does not work for you. you do not like the fact that i am make-up free.

you, on the other hand, are caked in layers of make-up that hide your flaws. i can smell your musky perfume (probably heavily slapped on earlier) from where i am standing. (i’m slightly allergic to unnatural scents but i suppress my sneeze.) i stare at your perfectly tailored suit, black and stiff and starched and proper. your clutch that reads G-U-C-C-I is studded with jewels that reflect the sunshine away from you. your black three-inch peep-toes make you a feet taller than what you really are. through the peep-hole of your peep-toes i see two blistered toes.

“looking good, lisa?” your voice lilts coldly. you sound so different. your voice was once warm like soft marshmellows and hot cocoa on a blistering winter- now it’s just cold like ice glaciers threatening to burst. your breath is heavy with the smell of nicotine and caffeine. i move closer to you and observe the wrinkles at the corners of your eyes.

“hello clarisse,” i flash my natural toothy grin at her. “how are you? what are you doing?” i feel a little nervous, and i wipe my palm on my dress sheepishly.

you ponder a little before replying. “good, of course. i’m earning quite a bit, and life’s comfortable. so what are you doing?” you are now looking at my worn flip-flops, comfortable but faded. your lips tighten in distaste.

“i am an art teacher.” i reply enthusiastically, wondering if clarisse remembers that that was what i’d told her i wanted to be, years ago. “see, i look at these things everyday.” i take out little johnny’s drawing on “my dream” from my bag to show it off proudly. it’s in watercolour of vibrant hues, depicting a boy in a hot-air balloon flying high up among fluffy clouds across seas of golden yellow tulips. “my dream is to fly up high,” johnny had written behind. it is my favourite one of all, and i am going to give johnny an A and three stickers for it.

you seem uninterested. (the clarisse i knew years ago would be interested.) “i look at these things everyday,” you break into a half-smirk, and take out a wad of cash from your wallet. there is easily a thousand in that stack. “they are much more useful.”

your same imploring gaze focuses on me once again, and you wait for me to be interested. i am only confused: once you told me so many things you wanted to be. most of all you wanted to be a singer, but if not, a wedding planner, or a hairdresser. you hated the idea of politics and long working hours, thinking that it spelled stifling. we used to map out our dreams in our secret shared journal, and i was so impressed by your faith, impressed by how sure you were of want you wanted. however, you are none of these now, and least of what you’d dreamt of being, yet you don’t seem the least bit fettered. and you are smirking at me because i am what i want to be.

an overbearingly awkward silence lingers only for 10 seconds, but mild tension remains stale in the air.

then i say, “so you must be happy to be doing something useful.”

“my life is good. i have what i want, and i am much more capable than anyone else. and at least i don’t have to bother patronizing little children, pretending to appreciate their artwork. but you like that, don’t you?” i see you’ve become more cynical and sarcastic. you used to praise me for being special, people liked dollars and i liked colours. now you just don’t see where i really am. and you are further away from me than I’ve ever imagined you’d be, after we lost contact years ago.

“you know i’ve always liked that,” i tell you. “art, and little children. it hasn’t changed.”

you nod slightly. you seem slightly appalled and ashamed. i think i imagine too much into your distracted expression, though, you should be prouder than you ever were.

“so anyway, clarisse, i’ve missed you. do you still sing?”

you raise your head lazily and reply “me too,” between a half-smirk and a half-sniff. “and no, i haven’t sung in a while.” i wonder if you still remember how to. “oh yes, got to go.”

“we’ll catch up someday, clar?”

“mmm, sure.”

we walk on in our separate directions; me for the museum, and you for the office. as the sound of your clicking footsteps sound softer and softer and you grow more and more distanced as you walk farther and further away, i think about how you always have the same gaze that sets us apart and i don’t think i’ll ever hear you sing again. a pity, because you used to melt my heart with your marshmallows-and-cocoa voice that sang happy songs of love and reason, but now i just feel sad for you. because you’d just go on dealing with people and earning a lot more money, but you won’t be in love with what you love. and i’d go on laughing with my little children, teaching them what it means to be free, and what it means to be in love with what they love.

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