Bald-headed
Ch. 14

"By the way, Sugi... How's Ron doing?" she asked.

It took him a second to answer.

"Ron died in a plane crash. When the plane he was boarding was about to land at Polonia Airport, Medan and at that time Medan was experiencing thick fog due to forest fires.

Reportedly, there is confusion between airport officers and pilots about the direction to be taken for landing. And it ended with the left wing of the plane crashing into the ravine, causing the plane to freefall into the forest until it was destroyed in flames."

"I'm sorry," he said. "I know he's your best friend."

His voice changed, a little deeper now.

"Yes. I've been thinking about it a lot lately. Especially the last time I saw him. I came home for my father's regular visit, and we met again. He was a banker here, like his father, we spent a lot of time together during the week.

I had persuaded him jokingly for us to go together to Batam, but his work here is good for him, I know that. Until then I received the news of his death."

"He's in a better place now" he said, regretting having brought the topic up.

"You're right. I just miss him, that's all."

"I like him too. He makes me laugh."

"He's always good at it."

He looked at her with a funny blink. "She has a crush on me, you know."

"I knew. He told me about it."

"He did? What's he saying?"

Sugi shrugged his shoulders. "The usual thing for him. That he must fight you with a stick. That you pursue him constantly, that kind of thing."

He laughed softly. "Do you believe him?"

"Of course," he answered, "why not?"

"You men are always united" he said, extending his hand across the table, piercing his arm with his finger.

"So tell me everything you've done since the last time I saw you."

They started talking later, making up for lost time. Sugi talked about leaving Situ Gintung, about working at the shipyard and at the landfill in Batam.

She talks lovingly about Yujin and slightly alludes to the scholarship to Australia, avoiding most of the details, and telling her about her father and how much she misses him.

Birundasih talked about college, painting, and the hours he spent volunteering at foster school. He talks about his family and friends and the charities he follows.

None of them talked about anyone they dated since the last time they met. Even Ali was ignored, and although both of them were aware of the negligence, no one mentioned it.

After that Birundasih tried to remember the last time he and Ali spoke like this. Although he listened well and they rarely argued, he was not the type of man to speak like this. Like her father, she was uncomfortable sharing her thoughts and feelings.

Birundasih once tried to explain that he needed to get closer to her, but never seemed to make a difference.

But sitting here now, he realized what he was missing.

The sky was getting darker and the moon was getting higher as the night got late. And without either of them realizing it, they begin to regain the intimacy, the bond of familiarity, that they once shared.

He enjoys talking to Birundasih and wonders if he talks too much, wondering what he thinks of his life, hoping it will make a difference, if it can.

Sugi got up and refilled the tea pot. The two of them brought the dishes to the sink and cleaned the table, and he poured two more cups of hot water, adding the teabags to the two.

"What about the homepage again?" he asked, handed over his cup, and he agreed, leading the way.

Sugi picked up a blanket for her just in case she was cold, and soon they took their place again, a blanket covering her legs.

Sugi watched him from the corner of the eye. God, she's beautiful, she thought. And inside, he felt pain. Because something happened during dinner. Simply put, she had fallen in love again. He knew it now because they were sitting next to each other. Falling in love with a new Birundasih, not just his memory.

But then, he never really stopped, and he realized, this was his destiny.

"It's been quite the night" he said, his voice softer now.

"Yes, indeed," he said, "a beautiful night." Sugi turned to the stars, their flickering lights reminded him that he was about to leave, and he felt almost empty inside. This was a night that he wanted to never end. How should he tell her? What can he say that will make him stay?

He doesn't know. And thus the decision was made not to say anything. And then he realized he had failed.

Crickets with a calm rhythm. Bat, hovering above the lake water. Moth smelling porch lights. Somewhere, he knows, there's a guy making love.

"Speak to me" he finally said, his voice sensual. Or is his mind playing tricks?

"What should I say?"

"Speak like you did to me under the oak tree."

And Sugi did it, reciting the distant parts, toasting for the night.

Wind, make a twig dance

In remembrance the day you moved from the union

Look at these trees ! Everyone is happy

Like a bunch of happiness.

Rumi Rhyme.

Then, Whitman and Thomas, because he liked the pictures.

William Shakespeare, the poet of Avon, because his theme felt so familiar and he was not only a poet but also a playwright.

He leaned his head against the back of the rocking chair, closed his eyes, becoming slightly warmer as the man finished. It is not just the poetry or the sound that does it. It is all, on the whole, greater than the sum of its parts.

He didn't try to break it down, didn't want to, because it wasn't meant to be listened to like that. Poetry, he thought, was not written for analysis, it was meant to inspire without reason, to touch without understanding.

Because of this man, he went to several poetry reading events offered by language and literature majors while in college. He sat down and listened to different people, different poems, but stopped soon after, discouraged as nothing inspired him or seemed inspired as a true lover of poetry.

They swayed for a while, drank tea, sat still, drifting in their minds. The compulsion that pushed him here is gone now, he's happy about this thing—but he's worried about the feelings that have replaced him, he said, the turmoil that began to filter and rotate in his pores was like the dust of a golden pot in a river.

He tries to deny them, hiding from them, but now he realizes that he does not want them to stop. It's been years since he felt this.