No Cryin’ in England

For what is the point?

He tried to imagine her life there, in England. The city. The buildings. The cars. The blue sky. A cloud snatched itself unto a tree branch. The world-famous Bridge.

“What are the chances of actually dying if I jump?” – She said. Here or there, people face Death just the same.

She was waiting for him. Love is waiting. When she finally met him, she would say she’s been waiting. She would say he doesn’t understand how she’s been waiting, how much she’s missed him, and how much of an idiot he was for now knowing.

He was an idiot, that he can admit. He didn’t know a lot of things about her, didn’t know that before they met, her life was already tangled with sadness and Death. There, they don’t speak Vietnamese, that “exotic” language. She spoke English most of the time. Only when there was failure, only when she was alone, only when she was humiliated and crush, did her mother-tongue came. It was of course, dirty, raunchy, something they would asked if she kissed her Mother with that mouth.

He also didn’t know how ill she was, how she coughed blood and puked buckets, how she shivered, fainted. Her face was a pale purple, from fear and from exhaustion. She was laughing, like them. Crying, like them. Read, like them. Drive, like them. Obey the law. Shrink from the police. Be friendly. She ate fries and burgers, fish and chips. She wore not underwear, but lingerie.

He knew not her desire to see him. She would call him out, awake and asleep, and her Hope was dedicated to himself. She cried many tears, yet he still knew nothing. That afternoon, she went out in search for him, in the trees, the birds, the cafes, the markets. She walked as if on thin rope, and even the slightest glimpse of memory tightened her heart.

He was an idiot, for the things he said to her when they meet. Something about the weather, the rice, the stock market, the bills he had to pay. What was he thinking? He came to her house, bad choice, as her husband was in. He rang the doorbell, and she was there.

“Sorry, sir. I think you’re gravely mistaken.” – She said, with the English she picked up from books and movies.

Her husband can be heard: “Who is it dear? Someone trying to rob us?”

“No, dear. He just seems very confuse.” – She leaned back to answer.

“Do you need something, sir?”

“Need something? No. But…”

“Then you must excuse me, sir, for I am quite busy.”

“Yes, of course. I… I do apologize. It’s just, I’ve come from far away, far further than you could imagine. As far as your memory goes, I suppose. My mistake.” – He forced a smile, his face crumbled like paper.

There were billions of people in the world. Who is he to assume he was ever in her memory.

She blamed him, for not understanding. He never will, unfortunately, the wishes of a woman far away from home. Wishes are but wishes. Oh how she wished for a cup of coffee from home. Everything back home was thick. The coffee punched your nose. The leaves were greener. The chillies were hotter. The man and women were loud. The handshakes and hugs were strong, sticky, thick like sap in the trees. The thickness, directness. She can’t drink it, the thick, strong coffee, but there was plenty to pick from. Hot, black; ice, cold; hot, black, with plenty of milk; egg coffee; or those instant ones. He bought once a big box of instant coffee. She tried one satchel, poured in half of it, and couldn’t finish the cup nor sleep the night away. When she was gone, he was left with the rest of the box, which he proceeded to drink, day by day, the taste as bitter as the day she left.

Her husband was right, he was a thief. But her husband was a thief himself. Stealing her from him. He stood there, quiet. And turned around. It was a smell, of wet hay and dirt. She reached out to him.

“Here, sir. Have some money for the road.” – She smiled.

Here, he sat. Alone. He felt lost. She was now thousands of miles away from him, on the other side of the globe. Too far to leave even memories. He closed his eyes and thought of her. Her slender body, her black eyes, her ever-shy gestures, her gentleness, her smell. He was entranced by how she has to gasp after a long sentence, to explain what that sentence meant in a book.

She had to leave. They were afraid, that the serenity of their love should be invaded, insulted by the mundanity of life, the need for money. He looked at her, worried, for she was sensitive to lost and pain, and those indescribable feelings of moving to another country made it difficult to console her. In fact, in front of him then was the most inconsolable woman on the planet. She will cry, cry for the green leaves and the coffee, cried in both English and Vietnamese.

He finally said something.

“Be strong. There’s no cryin’ in England.”

He was an idiot.

She was the most inconsolable woman on the planet, because he didn’t know who to console her, didn’t want to. He knew. Why? Because he himself needed consolation.

He finished the cup of coffee.