You have always thought Philippa is just a tad too pale.

Her soft, porcelain skin is almost translucent. The pale rosy tint over her symmetrical cheeks has such a contrast with her skin – made it seem like she is blushing all the time. And it is not just her skin that is “soft”: her eyes, too, a piercing yet gentle shade of indigo, her very long, very light, auburn-eggplant coloured hair extended on her back – and her straight and tacky bangs are spread out on her forehead, just above her eyes. Another fairly odd contrast, but a contrast nonetheless.

She looks like an angel, you think blissfully.

(She looks like an angel, many thinks admiringly.)

You write about her every night – not her (literally) but her (figuratively). It is funny, you’d think, because whenever you try to imagine a “beautiful girl”, simultaneously, you picture a vivid image of Philippa under the sun – the vibrant sunshine illuminates her hair into a sharp shade of ginger and you see single strands drift vaguely with the wind and you see her eyes. Perhaps you only find her waif look appealing.

You take a wild guess that it is not how she looks, it is her.

There is no adjective that is capable of describing such a girl. But it is possible to compare her to the moon at day and the sun at night—and the stars at dawn.

Since you were young, you remember going up to mama and informed her thoughtfully and knowingly on what your future career is going to be. She seemed to be enjoying the eight bottles of lager than what comes out of her eight-years-old son’s mouth. You didn’t take that too well.

Same thing happened with your step-father. You missed a father figure in your life before greatly and when you tried to bond with him, he appeared to be deaf and – and maybe he is.

You don’t know many people considering you are not an extroverted-type. You prefer peace to anything else. Your family – (sister) is the closest to you. And you are wholly happy with that.

You drop Philippa off at church every Sunday but you never go in with her. She never asks you why and you know she knows you don’t know why.

It’s an ugly shade of white; yellowish-white… a shade of ‘dirty’ white… ironic is what that is. Cursed building.

You assume it is because the church does not need another corrupt individual to grace with his/her presence. Because many people don’t go to church to be forgiven, but need “someone” to lean on from time to time and… the “someone” sounds dire. Emotional support is all there is. The fact that every one there is a truck load of cock and bull irritates you to no end.

You shared you thought on this with Philippa and she light-heartedly asks you if you believe she is a so called “cock and bull”. You reply with a ‘no’, but not understanding why she attends church to worship God if she nodded at your passionate speech. (You meant the ‘no’.) And Philippa understands that by some divine miracle and you know that’s what matters the most.

That exact day, you take her to the Riverdale Park and it is late afternoon. You prefer the bench but her the grass. You go along with Philippa.

You brought your grubby and cleaved fabric covered notebook with you. Just in case. Philippa asked you once what your notebook is about; you shrugged and told her ‘nothing’. She smiled and walked away to the church (and you wonder if she left to pray to God that one day, you’ll tell her.)

She is wearing a white sundress with thistle ballet flats. You know she is happy today because she is smiling ever so toothily. Your lips curve with hers, you are fairly content yourself today.

It is a sunny day today. It seemed so bizarre that the wind just blew warmth past your reddened cheeks. You hoist your head up to see the bird that just flew – a sight you haven’t seen in weeks.

Philippa says you think on the wing. Maybe that is why you are not satisfied with your stories. You told her you want to be a writer – or a journalist – working for the Times or Vanity Fair or the New Yorker or –

Philippa says she would love to see your work sometimes. You shrug as a reply but Philippa understands.

Chirping it went over the budding tree as a droplet of rain came dipping down –

You do not move, Philippa does not move. You take your sweater off and covered her. It is a soft rain, mild and tender with the earth. Your see her thistle shoes dabbed with very tiny spots of wisteria. She looked at you, and then reached for the notebook. You do not say anything.

The whole new wave of splendour spring did yield…

Philippa asks you if she can open it, you tell her ‘no’, but she does so anyway. Because you know she knows you know you want her to. You do not say anything but secretly hoped the rain would dash faster and heavier and harder – thus it might prick the damn notebook into pieces or can merge in with your imminent brine – which is trembling on the brink of your eye.

She opens the notebook and you look at the grass. Philippa marvels ‘there’s nothing written in here’. You offer silence and she places the vacant notebook down kindly. Philippa takes out an ink pen from her beige beaded purse; the cap is already slid unto the back and she leaves it on top of the notebook.

The rain dashes madly down—

Philippa notices you crying, and her smile encourages you to go on – you think it might be her trying to tell you to –

You see her now… despite the rain – sunshine appear to have leaked somewhere between the billows and her hair is glowing in a vivid colour of ginger and her eyes… they are glassy and ever so bright. You wonder if the rain has stopped, you don’t know because you don’t notice. But what you know is (you know you are creating downfalls –worse than the rain – gliding down your cheeks) – and you unpredictably began to carve with the pen on your notebook for the first time:

it is a sunny day today—
it is a sunny day today—
it is a sunny day today—