Fiction: A Smudge

A smudge, imperceptible, lurks at the right thumb, cuts it horizontally. The forefinger bends, rubs almost habitually against the tiny black stripe, which refuses to go away no matter how hard I try.

How it comes about, I wonder.

I was in town, in nowhere, walking in a reverie amid crowds, with myself. I have no destination, no dream, only an insipid existence. Couples, all lovey-dovey, passed me on the street. Spattered here and there, lonely, solemn faces lost in thoughts; I belonged with them.

I passed the shops, the boutiques, replete with glossy high-heels, or lacy, silky dresses – the stuff of feminine fantasy. My fingers could have run against their window-panes in fancy, whimsically. She could have glanced at them longingly, even if for a second, nudging me, pulling my arm through the entrance. If only she was there.

I took the bus further downtown; more glum faces stared out the windows. I took a seat close to the exit, began pressing my forefinger, then my thumb, next my small finger, against the window-pane, moping the water droplets that gathered from the chilly air-con. At first timidly, then in small circles, wider and wider, before starting all over again at another spot. Through the circles, I peeped at the people in the street, walking briskly, rushing to cross the street, huge bags of new acquisitions swinging. There was the occasional young female professional dressed to the nines, in thick mascara, duty-free designer-perfumes probably; on her way to squandering her vitality in a club or pub with strangers, getting drunk. I retracted my finger then, realising what I had lost, what they would lose, and in turn crave in vain.

A smudge could have been left unnoticed.

Approaching my stop, the bus swirled, screeched to a halt, almost throwing me off-balance as I staggered to the exit. Bright lights from the mall, pamphlets distributors with plastered smiles, greeted me, while the customers’ chatter from a nearby café enveloped the air. To them, the night was young.

Nights, I had in surfeit. Yet, it really didn’t matter if they were to end, on the next minute, or the next day. Nights were encumbered with emotions, a penance for earthly attachments, for sensual desires and love. So I roamed about, in avoidance, in fear, of the night and what it meant to the lovers, to the loved. I refused to suffocate in a lonely cell that was my room.

I engaged in soliloquies in my mind, laughed with myself at puerile thoughts, indifferent to the stares of strangers. Couples, families and clusters of teenagers in raucous mood filled the restaurants. I watched them through huge windows. I was once like the teenagers, had the world at my feet, as it implored my youth and love, for attention, for obedience. I touched the scenes longingly, my fingers lingered along the glass. Leaving a smudge again, perhaps.

PS: Something I wrote ages ago, but never posted. Well, it seems such a long time ago...