Interest Over Time

You’ve got the last half of the chocolate cake in front of you and, me – instant noodles topped with scrambled eggs. The whole world knows orange juice goes well noodles and eggs but, only you seem to have a liking for its pairing with chocolate cake. It’s three quarters away from midnight and, this was our dinner.

You make little to no sense to me most times and sometimes, you shock me from the possible sense that I can make of you. Over the past five months, we’ve spent one thousand and thirty hours to go from “Hello” to “See you”. You’ve got sealed lips and a hidden heart which makes you difficult to slip and even more so to read. You speak mechanics instead of emotions unless it’s a blue moon. Our conversations speak silence more than words and have somehow become a part of my routine. You’ve finished a quarter of the chocolate cake in the last half an hour and I see you’ve started to slow down. Whoever told you to have half a chocolate cake for dinner, I can never tell. Perhaps, for a change, you felt adventurous. In the past half an hour, we’ve made eye contact once and looked over at each other thrice.

A thousand and thirty hours was enough to catch my attention. Or perhaps it was the one thousand and thirty hours and little to no sense of you that did. You became a painting I came back to in the middle of the evening because it made no sense to me the first time and only teased me of meaning now. You were made of known colours but uncertain meaning. If red was love, red was also rage. If mourning was white somewhere, it was black elsewhere. You started becoming my muse without my knowledge as I tried settling on certainity of the colours you showed, and those I discovered you’d kept hidden. It was easy to look back and stare while the mystery lasted. Whether I looked back after it was gone was still unknown.

It was a minute past midnight, and you were struggling with the chocolate. So I walked over to the kitchen to bring a second fork. You looked over a fourth time and only knit your brows to question the fork in my hand when I returned. I slid my plate an inch towards you, handing out the fork to you in response. You acknowledged it, noded your head and took the fork from me. We continued the rest of dinner without another word. There’s a quarter of a chocolate cake left for another night of silent conversation.

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