liyana,

Sometimes I woke up early in the morning, at your place; I saw your side was empty. I got out of bed all groggy and looked for you.

At that hour, through a slight gap between the bedroom door, I could see you at the desk. Your relaxed but steady grip of pen, your soft silky hair fell down to the left side of your face as you tilted your head a little, your face looked calm, almost serene looking down as your writings filled the white blank pages. You had this same look when you fell asleep.

But your body posture was unmistakably composed and ready. There was a flow of energy neatly channeled onto those pages or on anything that you do. You worked hard. Throughout school and career, you gave serious commitments in everything you do. You took pride in your ability and in whatever that you associated yourself with.

Though sometimes I think you could relax a little and take things easy for a while, but the truth is I was proud of you.

We consistently swat about me taking things easy. About you having particular ways and preferences of doing things. About me having opinions of your preferences. About you having contradicting opinions. About me and my lackadaisical drive. About you having too much drive. You were fine with toast and butter for breakfast. I want my nasi lemak. You coffee day and night. Me a glass of teh ais at mamak stall.

But being with you always felt like home. Despite all that.

Sometimes after dinner, you would clean up at the kitchen doing away the dirty dishes. You tied your hair back and rolled up your sleeves, and you displayed your determination face again especially if you had a rough day at work. You had that laser beam focus and something in your beautiful face hardened. Despite that, the way some locks of hair fell onto your bare shoulder made my heart flutter.

I made it a point to hug you when you did the dishes. And nuzzled the back of your neck where that locks of hair fell. I loved inhaling the residue of your morning perfume infused with natural scent of your bare skin. I would bury my nose in your hair and sighed.

That would be me on my lazy days, or else I would have done the chore myself.

But you liked it. It softened the look on your face. It made you slightly tender.

You would sort your work outfits or for any occasions always few days before, if not weeks. You have a sense of style and fashion. You would have stacks of fashion magazine lying around in the apartment. Sometimes you would try these outfits and asked me whether it makes you look flattering.

Didn’t you know that I find you flattering in almost any clothes? Or without.

Though there have been times that I lied when you wore something a bit too revealing or showing too much cleavage for a party or social outfit. I didn’t really think it affected your decision; you were pretty much a woman of your own mind. At this age, you are very comfortable in your own skin.

These are the little details that I had of the time we spent together. I kept it with me wherever I go, when you had to travel away for work, when I had to be away for work.

And every time you had to go away, I spent my days counting hours, numbering them until you would return. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t think I had to.

I told you once, ‘it would be heaven to grow old with you.’

I would imagine us, grey and old, while you may still be robust and energetic, I’d be a bit more quiet and contemplative. We’d still walk around the parks, holding hands and walking stick maybe. Still swatting at each other perhaps but maybe at a reduced pace, because I’d might have trouble hearing by then.

I said, I might even annoy you incessantly if I started to forget things.

I might be pretty handful and you might lose your patience.

But liyana, even if my memories starting to fade at that age, I would still find you beautiful. And attractive. I would still try to court you, and every time I forget, I’d do it again.

To me you will always be the same young girl that I saw in the park with white fluffy jacket ten years ago. Looking up with a devilish smile. Waiting for me to find you. Again. And again.

It does not matter to what age we grow into.

It is always you and I. Finding each other again. Regardless where life takes us.

Always.

chairil