THE COUNTDOWN (A SHORT STORY)
THE COUNTDOWN
At dawn under the harsh spring breeze, I was on my way back to a familiar place from a strange path made of cobblestones… I felt lost… So, I started counting… One, two, three, four… Every spark you’ve created in me resonated like a firework, leaving its gleam on each stone. The crescent just like the tattoo on my wrist had its diminishing moonlight, slowly leaving its power to the gray sky surrounding it. So, I looked at each glowing stone brick and assigned them a number, before losing each twinkle for good… With every pace, I started seeing two shapes on each of them. These marble-like cobblestones mirrored a couple, joking, bumping, snuggling, separating. Hence, I had to count backwards, to memorize each before losing them for good. Four…
Four was the amount you touched me deeply.
That initial time when we had our eyes met for the first time, four eyes
competing and debating whose were brighter and prettier. Funny how we didn’t
reach a consensus just like the quarrel we had about tomatoes’
necessity in a sandwich. Getting lost in the track of time while speaking about
trifles of life. That second time, four were the total times we held each
other’s hands, under the streetlights while the rusty wheels of your car were swallowing
each white line bracket of the road. Each orange flicker was reflecting on our
palms which were getting stickier and stickier to one another. Each bump caused
our thumbs to rub each other’s knuckles. At that very time when four were my fingers
that rubbed your chin, with each friction a scintillation occurred from the
tips. Four was the attempt that you picked my fallen lashes resting on my
cheekbones, like a tweezer plucking a hairpiece gently. Four was the total of
times I shared samples of future possibilities, which you enjoyed momentarily. We
imagined going abroad together, deciding on a summer vacation together, and planning
to sneak into your university… Four were also the total amount of old-fashioned
songs that played where we roleplayed like we were strangers in a bar, dancing
foolishly and far from the rhythm of the music in my flat.
Four were the other figures that you
preferred seeing instead. You were certain none of them were like me, so it was
your own will to not meet with them but me… Yet you decided to rush to them
because it was easier to find a dirty and unpromising path right after that
very night when I became your scent. A path that didn’t have me. A path maybe
that was perfectly imperfect but not meant to be… Not with me, not like the
ones on the cobblestones. Three…
Three were the total pieces of popcorn
that you had from my hands which smelled like sea salt mixed with nail polish.
Three were the total novice attempts of my touches to your French tattoo on
your right arm that turned into subtle caresses which we would still laugh
about at that very specific time when I interpreted it as Spanish. Three was
the age gap between us where I felt like a grandpa, and you eased my
anxiousness, reminded my youth, and comforted me about my insecurities.
Three was the time I scared you off with
my determined words when everything was so sudden and early for you. Two…
Two were our lips that felt like home when
they met. Two times the outdated Christmas tree lights brightened my shelf
while we were playing with each other. Two times repeated one another when we
passed and got lost in front of that antique café where we first met because of
miscommunication. Two different hair colors you had in each of our encounters, mesmerized
and evoked me with different urges in the same unique way. Two nearly whole days we belonged to one
another… Twice, you reminded me that this was not mutual… However, two were
those eyes that displayed a spellbound gaze, hesitating to push or pull me and associated
me with an experience like ‘sobering up from a drug’. Two were the glasses that
I filled with turnip juice, but I didn’t pour the red wine that I hid inside
the closet which I bought with the juice... The red wine I knew I’d finish once
you left.
Two, the drunk beggars were, shouting and labeling
our tight farewell cuddle “a true love”. None of us can deny that it was like a
movie scene which neither one of us can manifest… Two were the last seconds
that I watched your car take the curve that I wished was a sphere… One…
One was the moment when I wore your shirt, which you wore inside out afterward. One was the vampire actor that you thought I resembled him which made me blush and extremely confident for a brief moment. One was the tattoo on your middle finger that you displayed and teased me with… One was the tennis ball that you accidentally rolled under our sofa… That sofa which inevitably had to crease the shape of our bodies on itself. One was the cat figure that you noticed and pitied that was left behind my albums on the luminous shelf. That one cat that I chose as a gift so that at least one of us was not without you anymore. One was the time that you wore your glasses instead of your lenses which made me get lost in those eyes no matter what type of barrier there was between me and your eyes. One was the children's book that you gave to me that had your name on its title… One was the attempt I had on this written draft where I would have a chance to remember you in detail. One was the last time I shouted “At least I am trying…” by myself. One was the promise that you made to take our picture which we pretended to forget because it’d hurt both of us later on… One was the only time I talked and became a nerd about books in front of you. Virginia Woolf aided us with her narration and caused me to relate our situation to Septimus and Evans... One was the amount of losing you… One was the proposal that you made to never see each other again and it felt enough… Pride, youth, and 'different frequencies' of our states were the antagonists in our textual decelerated story which felt like a misleading acceleration each time we united. In a world where everyone was seeking love, this was too yielding for you hence one eye contact was enough for you to hesitate, find excuses and obstacles to give up on us. We were in a golden trophy race where we didn't even cross the start line.
One was the last promise that you will never fulfill of
writing me back if you miss me... Frankly, it was more than enough… It felt…
Endless…
Endless were the trials of me acting like I was smart with my literary and linguistic ideas that I mostly took quarter of the knowledge of my wise professors to impress you and help you with your assignment. Endless were the times that you were laughing at them while calling them “boring” and picking planets as subjects over them. Endless was the amount that you repeated the two words “last cigarette” before your departure. Endless were the beats of our hearts when feeling each other for the last time. Endless cobblestones on the pavement witnessed my return to my sofa… It was with your smell but without your existence… Endless were the odor of your perfume appearing inside my nose in the open air while the wind was combing my hair. Endless were the times Evans was haunting Septimus... Endless were the times I got mad at Austen for ever creating Fitzwilliam Darcy, the perfect man who dares to change himself for his one and only. Endless were the times we laughed at my straight hairstyle which was supposed to be curly. Endless were the amount of smoke that we clumsily blew onto each other’s faces. Endless were the minutes that carried our comparisons about our zodiac signs and contrasts in a silly way.
Endless were the times that went by while they were spent together…
Funny how zero is left to be cherished… Zero…
Zero cobblestones are now here to reminisce about our coherence. Zero were the messages that were left to receive to greet each other’s mornings or evenings. Zero were the times I felt unsafe around your arms. Zero were the total ideas that I was unsure of when I was being conquered. Zero are now the doors that you left open… Zero are the photos that remain in my gallery… Zero was the number of lyrics that you preferred in a song, unlike my pop collection. And now maybe zero is the next moment we will come across…
Zero will be the time that I’ll ever have the courage to confess
the song that I still listen to remember you… Zero was the hope that contained “us”
in our futures.
I have been counting the cobblestones on
the pavement. That very pavement where I had my last view at the back of your
Chery car, holding that child's space book. That pavement that hosted those two
drunk beggars who mocked us with the most accurately ironic words entering the alcohol
store… "Now this is true love!" they shouted teasingly, and yes, it was the moment when you nuzzled my neck, breathed and kissed me goodbye. That pavement that carried the misty tracks of my boots were soon to disappear
just like your claim where supposedly my longing for you would be… That pavement
which had its momentary and temporary twinkles... Even the cobblestones were
foolishly dancing themselves as if their joy was permanent.
I have been counting those poor
cobblestones on the pavement because I could not count these ghostly memories… Yet
unlike your escape path, my sole return curve had its’ sphere where I had no
choice but to recall… Now no more cobblestones are left to count and many empty
marbles mirror a vague future… In this vagueness, many marbles had their mystery,
yet one case was certain and vivid, zero cobblestones were left to house both
of us...
-THE END-
(Image generated with the assistance of OpenAI's ChatGPT, 2025.)
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