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.”
