Yvonne Zheng is a college student from Portland, Oregon. Her hobbies include biking, drinking tea, and
consuming donuts (maple is a favorite). She enjoys concocting stories from the rubbish she purchases by the
pound at the local Goodwill outlet store. Her work has not been published elsewhere.
consuming donuts (maple is a favorite). She enjoys concocting stories from the rubbish she purchases by the
pound at the local Goodwill outlet store. Her work has not been published elsewhere.
A Slow Moment
You've somehow subconsciously logged him into your body. Every morning, you wake up to the flutter of his eyelashes against
the back of your neck. The curtains give a little shake, stealing wisps of sunlight into its soft beat, and you give a little smile
across your spine. In a slow moment, you turn over to kiss his eyes but catch only gauzy air. A diaphanous image of what was
never yours.
Sigh.
Now all you see is stuccoed ceiling, an expanse of alabaster to reflect the rumble that has become lifeless. You lie there, blinking
only to appease a nerve. You're tired. You feel faceless. You feel sick -- where is that heavy odor coming from? Hurriedly, your
eyes fix themselves on the clock -- 12:34 p.m. in angry red. Huh. Isn't that something -- they begin to pulsate -- the numbers,
I mean -- and one by one, like vultures, swoop over your head, then again, and again...
Ever since he rushed out of your life, you've become uglier. You can barely look at yourself. Everyone you know thinks you are
happy because of your youth and your certainty, but these are, of course, false impressions -- you've allowed the faces of your
successful friends, your contented colleagues, relatives, and acquaintances to usurp your own appearance, so that now your only
job is to exhaust yourself with this faux buoyancy. At the center of your chest, the roots of your life have curled unwittingly into
a state of obsolescence. No amount of recognition could restore them back to what they originally were. But what does this
matter? You're dead anyway.
Another sigh.
Yet for all those feelings, all those sentiments, they will never amount to those other feelings, those other sentiments. You used
to feel so much. You used to see colors, and distinguish them, and taste them. Their flavors were ornate and flamboyant, so
intricate in their entirety. You used to pick up every detail, every note and tone of those colors. And those colors were colors he
gave you, delivered neatly in a present-box, an explosion of sensation awaiting within. You were a child then, receiving your very
first set of acrylic paints. He taught you what to capture, where to find the colors, and how to unify those splatters of pigment
into loud, blazing shades you could never forget. He did his job: you never forgot them. But as with everything else, great
lessons learned are stored into memories, and memories inevitably fade. Consequently, the flavors are remembered, but the
tastes forgotten. Time has glossed itself over your past, rounded your heart's tongue into stone. The only way to keep a
moment from slipping, from dying into a memory, is to keep it going. But alas – this is too ambitious of a thought.
When you were younger, Nanette used to always tell you that choosing a lover was better than being chosen by one. You never
quite understood what she meant. Then one day, when he charged into your life as if by a burst of wind, you felt deliciously
golden and you sparkled deliberately, with all the self-assured intent you could muster, right in front of Nanette's darting eyes and
defeated mouth. Privileges are given, never concocted out of thin air. Indeed, you felt deliriously lucky to hold his hands in the
little cafes and to occasionally smooth his eyebrows with open caresses. You were his puzzle project, and he put you together.
Once, he pulled the duvet over your body and held tightly. You felt the severe heat of his embrace and allowed yourself to burn in
his passion. I think... he was cautious enough to allow you armor, a protection of cotton and down. Still, your heart was ablaze
and turbulent in the force of his temper, a temper which blew castles into your spirit. He was everything... and he gave you your
life -- conducted your repertoire of dreams. You never imagined that he'd go so quickly -- never could have envisioned that
solemn day he put on his Oxfords and sprinted for the train. You helped him pack his suitcase the evening prior to his
departure. Your face was nestled wretchedly in the arches of his neck and you begged him to return soon. You were despondent
already, anxiously huddling over what was left of the light, struggling to prevent it from meeting the arctic draft. He lifted the
bend of your chin and said lightly, "I can't make you any promises." And then he vanished, leaving behind him a trail of fallen
petals.
You've somehow subconsciously logged him into your body. You wake up to the flutter of his eyelashes against the back of your
neck. The windows are shut; it is cold and unclear outside. A chill crawls across your spine, and in a slow moment, you lift a palm
to shield your nape.
Sigh.
He never came back. You waited, of course. You waited in the dark of closets, where you allowed yourself to flood your eyes.
Later, you waited in a sea of camaraderie, a place to smile and laugh patiently against a sinking heart. You expected no less from
yourself. You measured the time in seasons, and soon lost your conception of seconds, minutes, and hours to meaningless
instances. You simply waited and let the moments go by. You waited, only to die with a treasure chest of all your recollections. A
trove of dusty senses carved into the gravity of earth. A casket filled with quiet prayers.
By the time you get out of bed, the sky is roaring blue. Hurriedly, your eyes fix themselves on the clock -- 1:23 p.m. Your heart
breaks, keeps on breaking, has always been broken. You think time is unforgiving and cruel. You put on your clothes, eat
breakfast, and open the door to a tree-lined street: busy and moving. Whisking through it, you are a bubbled vessel made of
resilient cellophane. When the light hits the lines of your face, you shut your eyes and walk on. In a slow moment, you will open
them again.
You've somehow subconsciously logged him into your body. Every morning, you wake up to the flutter of his eyelashes against
the back of your neck. The curtains give a little shake, stealing wisps of sunlight into its soft beat, and you give a little smile
across your spine. In a slow moment, you turn over to kiss his eyes but catch only gauzy air. A diaphanous image of what was
never yours.
Sigh.
Now all you see is stuccoed ceiling, an expanse of alabaster to reflect the rumble that has become lifeless. You lie there, blinking
only to appease a nerve. You're tired. You feel faceless. You feel sick -- where is that heavy odor coming from? Hurriedly, your
eyes fix themselves on the clock -- 12:34 p.m. in angry red. Huh. Isn't that something -- they begin to pulsate -- the numbers,
I mean -- and one by one, like vultures, swoop over your head, then again, and again...
Ever since he rushed out of your life, you've become uglier. You can barely look at yourself. Everyone you know thinks you are
happy because of your youth and your certainty, but these are, of course, false impressions -- you've allowed the faces of your
successful friends, your contented colleagues, relatives, and acquaintances to usurp your own appearance, so that now your only
job is to exhaust yourself with this faux buoyancy. At the center of your chest, the roots of your life have curled unwittingly into
a state of obsolescence. No amount of recognition could restore them back to what they originally were. But what does this
matter? You're dead anyway.
Another sigh.
Yet for all those feelings, all those sentiments, they will never amount to those other feelings, those other sentiments. You used
to feel so much. You used to see colors, and distinguish them, and taste them. Their flavors were ornate and flamboyant, so
intricate in their entirety. You used to pick up every detail, every note and tone of those colors. And those colors were colors he
gave you, delivered neatly in a present-box, an explosion of sensation awaiting within. You were a child then, receiving your very
first set of acrylic paints. He taught you what to capture, where to find the colors, and how to unify those splatters of pigment
into loud, blazing shades you could never forget. He did his job: you never forgot them. But as with everything else, great
lessons learned are stored into memories, and memories inevitably fade. Consequently, the flavors are remembered, but the
tastes forgotten. Time has glossed itself over your past, rounded your heart's tongue into stone. The only way to keep a
moment from slipping, from dying into a memory, is to keep it going. But alas – this is too ambitious of a thought.
When you were younger, Nanette used to always tell you that choosing a lover was better than being chosen by one. You never
quite understood what she meant. Then one day, when he charged into your life as if by a burst of wind, you felt deliciously
golden and you sparkled deliberately, with all the self-assured intent you could muster, right in front of Nanette's darting eyes and
defeated mouth. Privileges are given, never concocted out of thin air. Indeed, you felt deliriously lucky to hold his hands in the
little cafes and to occasionally smooth his eyebrows with open caresses. You were his puzzle project, and he put you together.
Once, he pulled the duvet over your body and held tightly. You felt the severe heat of his embrace and allowed yourself to burn in
his passion. I think... he was cautious enough to allow you armor, a protection of cotton and down. Still, your heart was ablaze
and turbulent in the force of his temper, a temper which blew castles into your spirit. He was everything... and he gave you your
life -- conducted your repertoire of dreams. You never imagined that he'd go so quickly -- never could have envisioned that
solemn day he put on his Oxfords and sprinted for the train. You helped him pack his suitcase the evening prior to his
departure. Your face was nestled wretchedly in the arches of his neck and you begged him to return soon. You were despondent
already, anxiously huddling over what was left of the light, struggling to prevent it from meeting the arctic draft. He lifted the
bend of your chin and said lightly, "I can't make you any promises." And then he vanished, leaving behind him a trail of fallen
petals.
You've somehow subconsciously logged him into your body. You wake up to the flutter of his eyelashes against the back of your
neck. The windows are shut; it is cold and unclear outside. A chill crawls across your spine, and in a slow moment, you lift a palm
to shield your nape.
Sigh.
He never came back. You waited, of course. You waited in the dark of closets, where you allowed yourself to flood your eyes.
Later, you waited in a sea of camaraderie, a place to smile and laugh patiently against a sinking heart. You expected no less from
yourself. You measured the time in seasons, and soon lost your conception of seconds, minutes, and hours to meaningless
instances. You simply waited and let the moments go by. You waited, only to die with a treasure chest of all your recollections. A
trove of dusty senses carved into the gravity of earth. A casket filled with quiet prayers.
By the time you get out of bed, the sky is roaring blue. Hurriedly, your eyes fix themselves on the clock -- 1:23 p.m. Your heart
breaks, keeps on breaking, has always been broken. You think time is unforgiving and cruel. You put on your clothes, eat
breakfast, and open the door to a tree-lined street: busy and moving. Whisking through it, you are a bubbled vessel made of
resilient cellophane. When the light hits the lines of your face, you shut your eyes and walk on. In a slow moment, you will open
them again.
Yvonne Zheng
