Leaves

The room is dark except for the bleak late evening moonlight struggling to seep in through the thin curtains billowing into the room. There is a desk against one wall, with a window overlooking the untended backyard. Sheaves of paper cover every inch of the surface of the desk, and on top of them all, at the center of the desk, sits a 1941 Royal Quiet Deluxe, its keys collecting dust, a ribbon broken. A pair of glasses rests on a stack of black and white photos with scalloped edges and a grainy finish, browning with age. In the corner, on a stand, is an old gramophone. Yes, it works. In fact, at this very moment the stuttering static fades into the first few chords of a sitar. The air is warm. The notes sweat, glisten. Listen. A tabla joins in. The song rises.

Across the room, the only other source of light is the soft orange glow of a forgotten cigarette burning away in an ashtray, next to a rocker where a man, his head falling to his shoulder, is sound asleep. In front of him, on a low table, an abandoned game of chess waits. The man snores.

On the pale blue walls around him, canvases hang; empty, white. Each has taken him a few weeks to finish. He’s stood at his easel by the window everyday the last few months, transfixed, unable to pull himself away, struggling to grasp an image, a memory and turn it into something real. Something more tangible. Each time, the finished painting is very slightly different from the others. A breeze ruffling through her hair. A subtle up-turn of her lips into a barely detectable smile. The eyes, crinkling in the corners. Just the eyes alone take him hours to get right. In the end, there she is, looking at him from every corner of the room, from every angle. Through the hair over her eyes, that he itches to brush away. Peering up through her thick lashes. From the corner one eye in a profile. And in one with a look on her face as blank as the canvas it sits on.

A breeze from the open window blows the ashes of the cigarette towards the sleeping man. He wrinkles his nose, his forehead creasing, but then his face relaxes. He shifts. Places his feet on the table, precariously close to his ivory queen. And he opens his eyes.

Fingers grasped tightly around the teak armrests of the rocker, he pulls his torso forward and peers out through the sheer white cotton drapes out past the straggling strangers lost in thought at they cross the street to the other side, or walk along the sidewalk, their faces hanging. Across the street at the bus stop, where a young couple stands side-by-side, leaning against a tall tree, looking straight ahead. Once every few minutes, the boy leans out to check if the bus is coming. The girl taps him on the shoulder, and when he turns to look at her, she points to her cheek. He leans over and kisses her. A few minutes later, she taps him again, he turns around, she points to the other cheek and he kisses her again.

The old man stares at the barren tree, bereft of the warmth of its leaves, of all but one. That one leaf, resilient, faithful. The tree, holding on. The leaf, its edges turning orange. The tree, holding on. The careless young couple leaning against it. He worries. The young man walks back into the street, craning his neck for an approaching bus.

“You still got some time,” the man says out loud, his voice gruff from a lack of use, closes his eyes and leans back in his chair. Against his chest, a pocket watch ticks. The second hand makes its rounds. The minute hand takes a step forward. The man’s fingers tap the front of the armrests. The polish has worn out at the ends, leaving the wood soft and familiar to his touch. Sweat pours down his back. He rubs the wood, carefully massaging it, tenderly. He rocks back and forth and the rocker creaks. Back and forth. The tabla beats. Listen.

Outside, the bus comes. The couple gets on. The last leaf on the tree breaks free of its branch, flutters and soars dizzyingly towards the pavement. Inside, the old man clutches at his chest. His forehead creases. Then relaxes. His foot lands against the ivory queen. She falls.

Outside, the leaf lands softly. It shivers in the breeze. Stills. And then gets swept away to join the rest of the old, dried leaves across the sidewalk. When rain comes, minutes later, it clings to the bottom of a shoe and disappears down the street.

Inside, the needle on the gramophone rises.

Trombone

The Trombone desires breath
Fresh air
Everytime
New Lips
To curve
Around his mouth

Full lips
With curves
Around his mouth

New Lips
Until
The old ones desire
A Flute