Through Your Notes

Monday

Monday

12.17 a.m.

“I hope you don’t mind joining me tonight.”

“Of course I don’t mind.” I shake my head.

“Great.” Your face lights up. You hand me a black bag. “There you go.”

“Where did you get another sleeping bag?”

“I bought it, of course.”

“You bought it just for me?” I ask.

“Yeah.” You nod. “You can’t be sleeping on the ground, can you?”

I chuckle and tuck myself in the sleeping bag. I shut my eyes for a little while.

The sound of water from the lake becomes my music for tonight.

   Pops, can I really trust him?

“Are you comfortable?”

“Yeah.” I reply. “It’s more calming than I thought it’d be.”

“Yeah.”

“How do you bear the chilly wind, by the way?” I ask.

“I have layers of jacket on me.” You say.

“Oh.”

“Are you cold?” You ask.

“N- No.”

You sit up. You take off one of your jackets and put it on me.

“There you go.” You smile. “A lot warmer now, doesn’t it?”

I nod. “Thanks.”

 The dripping sound of the water from the lake engulfs the silence.

“Until when are you going to sleep in this sleeping bag by the lake?” I ask.

“Until tonight.” You say.

“Oh. So, it’s your last night here.” I say. “Is that why you ask me to join you?” I ask.

“Mm hmm.” You nod, from my peripheral vision. “I’ve got a job at a diner.”

“That’s great.” I turn to look at you. “Congratulations.”

 You are already looking at me. My heart jumps a little.

“Thank you.” You nod. “I waiter in the morning and I sing at night. The owner offers accommodation too.”

“Oh.”

Do I still get to see You?

“Hey, K.” Your voice soft

“Yeah?”

“About last night…”

Please don’t bring it up.

“Last night?” I echo.

“Uhh…”

“You know, I sleepwalk sometimes.” I lie. “You know how weird sleepwalkers can get.”

“Right…” You trail off.

“Did I do anything, though?” I ask cautiously.

“No.” You say.

 I sigh in relief.  

“But…”

Oh, no. Don’t

“I saw one of your sketches yesterday.”

I sigh in relief, again.

“Yeah?”

“You drew a lady.”

“Oh.”

“Most of your sketches are your dad and the sceneries. There’s only one sketching of a lady.”

“Yeah.”

“Is she your mum?”

“I don’t know.” I shrug.

“You don’t know?”

“She left when I was four.” I say. “I can’t remember her face. The sketch is based on my imagination of her."

“Do you miss her?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to see her?”

“Yes.”