[story] citydust
author: a (overrule)
I do not remember the circumstances of our meeting; I can't recall what was said, if anything had been said at all - as all nights had the same beginning and the same endings, the first night melted into this current of the nights that followed. In fact, I do not remember much of what she looked like; all I have left are these words, and perhaps it is just as well, for she is very, very beautiful, and if my stories captured her splendour more vividly, then I have no doubts that you too would fall in love with her, in a manner that is too deep and too real, only to have your heart broken.
Of how long the affair lasted, I cannot tell you. It could have easily been days or weeks or months. Years, even. Time did not seem to hold any meaning whenever I was with her. Night after night she'd arrive at my doorstep and stay with me till morning. Often she'd ask me to tell her stories - stories of my childhood, stories of other people, stories that never happened. We would sit, knee to knee or face to face, and she would listen while I spoke; she never talked about herself, but I knew she must have lived far, far away, because from time to time she asked questions like "What do peaches taste like?" and "Where do birds go when they fly away?" and I would pause from my tales to give her an answer she was satisfied with. On other nights, she'd lay my head on her lap and croon wordless melodies in a voice that sounded like the cacophony of blinding lights, and though her songs would lull me, I'd fight to stay awake, to hear her sing longer. But it would always be the same in the end: I'd fall asleep and dream of street-mazes and tall towers that blinked against a black sky, and wake up to find her gone, just the ghost of her anthems lingering at the corners of my vision before fading into consciousness.
Sometimes she'd make me hold her tight while she sniffed and sobbed and shivered in my arms, and I could only wait for her sadness to pass, unable to heal it.
And then one night, I opened the door for her, but she didn't come in. Instead, she reached out. Her hand was small when it caught mine, and she squeezed hard but I didn't squeeze back, afraid that I'd break it. (And what a fool I was then, when what I should have feared was losing her because I hadn't held on hard enough.)
I did not understand her gesture, but I also did not wish to disturb the moment, so I kept still and said nothing. An eternity must have come and gone before she finally spoke: "Do you love me?"
And I, without sparing the slightest thought: "More than anything in the world."
She smiled a smile that could have lit up the sky, and so dazzled was I then that I didn't notice that my surroundings had changed. Perhaps that smile had magic in it, like wizards' wands and love potions. Perhaps it was the hidden key, the forgotten password, to a secret hiding place. Who knows what other spells she cast on me? To be honest, the notion frightened me. Yet still I loved her, this mystical creature of the night.
As these thoughts ran in my head, I surveyed the landscape to find myself all alone. It was dark where I was, and the only light came from the bed of stars that dusted a vast stretch of sky, and its reflection on what seemed like a lake before me. I called out to her several times, but the shadows swallowed my voice and licked their lips until I stopped.
Resigned, I peered at the lake, fancying it as a magical gateway back to my home. The surface glimmered with mirrored starlight. The sky's reflection? No. The sky was the reflection, I realized, choking on my breath as I looked harder, deeper. There, there, underneath the film of water, was everything that she sang of, the world she'd painted to me with her voice: stoplights and skyscrapers, smoke and dust. And I could feel it all crumbling around me as I stood, mesmerized in spite of myself. I whispered, "I love you" over the roar of a speeding train, closing my eyes and breathing in the dying city.
When I opened my eyes, I was back at my doorstep. She was watching me quietly, almost uncertainly. Had I dreamt it all? The sounds and images reeled in my head, and suddenly I noticed just how weary and hollow she looked, and how her weightless hand was almost translucent in the moonlight, and I knew that everything I'd seen was real. "I love you," I said again, and kissed her softly on the lips.
That night she didn't cry or sing or ask me to tell stories, but she listened as I counted to her the many ways I loved her: I loved her with my mind and I loved her with my heart. But I also loved her with my eyes and my tongue and my hands and my body.
I loved the taste of her kisses. I loved the awkward way she swayed while we danced under a waning moon. I loved the curve of her ear and the line of her jaw. I loved how her collarbones jutted out beneath her smoky skin, how the sharp swell of her hip fit into my palm, how her hair tangled in my fingers. I loved each flicker of her eyelashes. I loved each part of her, and I loved her all over again for hundreds of reasons and in hundreds of ways, one for each streetlamp that glowed inside of her (she'd whispered the number to me).
I don't remember at which moment I fell asleep. Perhaps she had cast another spell on me, because otherwise I wouldn't have let her leave. But just like all the other nights, I woke up alone.
I waited for her that night, and every night after that, but she never came back. Not long after, I set out to tell stories of her, hoping that someone would recognize her and know where she was. But they could only sigh and smile at my tales, and weep at my questions. After a while, I stopped asking questions but continued to tell my stories. Somehow they became so widely known that I witnessed the birth of a city quite like her. She is young, too young to know what it is to be a woman, and knows not of love and death, but there are many who come here and fall in love with the towers and street-mazes; I myself have grown to love her, albeit in a different way. It is in her heart that I will die and turn to citydust, and in her heart that she will learn of love and death: a father's love and a stranger's death, and she will weep. And you, wherever you are hearing or reading this story from - if you are in this city when she's crying, press a kiss to one of her walls. It will not heal her sadness, but there is nothing else that you can do. And should a gust of wind blow dust into your eye, understand that it is only a man trying to embrace a crying child.
This is the last time I tell this story, but while this city lives this story will not die, and even then travellers will come and go to keep it alive. I have grown old and weary and my fingers ache as I grip this pen to finish this story, but night after night I walk these streets, the child-city's heartbeat strong beneath my feet, past hundreds of streetlamps that light my way, one for every reason and every way that I fell in love.
the end
I do not remember the circumstances of our meeting; I can't recall what was said, if anything had been said at all - as all nights had the same beginning and the same endings, the first night melted into this current of the nights that followed. In fact, I do not remember much of what she looked like; all I have left are these words, and perhaps it is just as well, for she is very, very beautiful, and if my stories captured her splendour more vividly, then I have no doubts that you too would fall in love with her, in a manner that is too deep and too real, only to have your heart broken.
Of how long the affair lasted, I cannot tell you. It could have easily been days or weeks or months. Years, even. Time did not seem to hold any meaning whenever I was with her. Night after night she'd arrive at my doorstep and stay with me till morning. Often she'd ask me to tell her stories - stories of my childhood, stories of other people, stories that never happened. We would sit, knee to knee or face to face, and she would listen while I spoke; she never talked about herself, but I knew she must have lived far, far away, because from time to time she asked questions like "What do peaches taste like?" and "Where do birds go when they fly away?" and I would pause from my tales to give her an answer she was satisfied with. On other nights, she'd lay my head on her lap and croon wordless melodies in a voice that sounded like the cacophony of blinding lights, and though her songs would lull me, I'd fight to stay awake, to hear her sing longer. But it would always be the same in the end: I'd fall asleep and dream of street-mazes and tall towers that blinked against a black sky, and wake up to find her gone, just the ghost of her anthems lingering at the corners of my vision before fading into consciousness.
Sometimes she'd make me hold her tight while she sniffed and sobbed and shivered in my arms, and I could only wait for her sadness to pass, unable to heal it.
And then one night, I opened the door for her, but she didn't come in. Instead, she reached out. Her hand was small when it caught mine, and she squeezed hard but I didn't squeeze back, afraid that I'd break it. (And what a fool I was then, when what I should have feared was losing her because I hadn't held on hard enough.)
I did not understand her gesture, but I also did not wish to disturb the moment, so I kept still and said nothing. An eternity must have come and gone before she finally spoke: "Do you love me?"
And I, without sparing the slightest thought: "More than anything in the world."
She smiled a smile that could have lit up the sky, and so dazzled was I then that I didn't notice that my surroundings had changed. Perhaps that smile had magic in it, like wizards' wands and love potions. Perhaps it was the hidden key, the forgotten password, to a secret hiding place. Who knows what other spells she cast on me? To be honest, the notion frightened me. Yet still I loved her, this mystical creature of the night.
As these thoughts ran in my head, I surveyed the landscape to find myself all alone. It was dark where I was, and the only light came from the bed of stars that dusted a vast stretch of sky, and its reflection on what seemed like a lake before me. I called out to her several times, but the shadows swallowed my voice and licked their lips until I stopped.
Resigned, I peered at the lake, fancying it as a magical gateway back to my home. The surface glimmered with mirrored starlight. The sky's reflection? No. The sky was the reflection, I realized, choking on my breath as I looked harder, deeper. There, there, underneath the film of water, was everything that she sang of, the world she'd painted to me with her voice: stoplights and skyscrapers, smoke and dust. And I could feel it all crumbling around me as I stood, mesmerized in spite of myself. I whispered, "I love you" over the roar of a speeding train, closing my eyes and breathing in the dying city.
When I opened my eyes, I was back at my doorstep. She was watching me quietly, almost uncertainly. Had I dreamt it all? The sounds and images reeled in my head, and suddenly I noticed just how weary and hollow she looked, and how her weightless hand was almost translucent in the moonlight, and I knew that everything I'd seen was real. "I love you," I said again, and kissed her softly on the lips.
That night she didn't cry or sing or ask me to tell stories, but she listened as I counted to her the many ways I loved her: I loved her with my mind and I loved her with my heart. But I also loved her with my eyes and my tongue and my hands and my body.
I loved the taste of her kisses. I loved the awkward way she swayed while we danced under a waning moon. I loved the curve of her ear and the line of her jaw. I loved how her collarbones jutted out beneath her smoky skin, how the sharp swell of her hip fit into my palm, how her hair tangled in my fingers. I loved each flicker of her eyelashes. I loved each part of her, and I loved her all over again for hundreds of reasons and in hundreds of ways, one for each streetlamp that glowed inside of her (she'd whispered the number to me).
I don't remember at which moment I fell asleep. Perhaps she had cast another spell on me, because otherwise I wouldn't have let her leave. But just like all the other nights, I woke up alone.
I waited for her that night, and every night after that, but she never came back. Not long after, I set out to tell stories of her, hoping that someone would recognize her and know where she was. But they could only sigh and smile at my tales, and weep at my questions. After a while, I stopped asking questions but continued to tell my stories. Somehow they became so widely known that I witnessed the birth of a city quite like her. She is young, too young to know what it is to be a woman, and knows not of love and death, but there are many who come here and fall in love with the towers and street-mazes; I myself have grown to love her, albeit in a different way. It is in her heart that I will die and turn to citydust, and in her heart that she will learn of love and death: a father's love and a stranger's death, and she will weep. And you, wherever you are hearing or reading this story from - if you are in this city when she's crying, press a kiss to one of her walls. It will not heal her sadness, but there is nothing else that you can do. And should a gust of wind blow dust into your eye, understand that it is only a man trying to embrace a crying child.
This is the last time I tell this story, but while this city lives this story will not die, and even then travellers will come and go to keep it alive. I have grown old and weary and my fingers ache as I grip this pen to finish this story, but night after night I walk these streets, the child-city's heartbeat strong beneath my feet, past hundreds of streetlamps that light my way, one for every reason and every way that I fell in love.
the end