How To Catch A Heart | ✓

chapter three: stuffed hearts

C H A P T E R   T H R E E   :   S T U F F E D   H E A R T S

"psithurism(n.) — the sound of wind through trees "

_____________________

            Frank did not throw stones today.

            It was seven when the day had turned bright, sunlight penetrating the translucent curtain through the windows. I finished my reading and folded my prayer mat, slinging it onto the flat hanger beside the bed. I walked on my knees to the square patch of light on the made up bed and swiped the curtains open. It parted in half, making way for more light to flood the whole room. I unclasped the lock from the inside and pushed the window outwards. The smell of dew hung thick in the air.

            "I brought breakfast!" Frank bellowed from one feet under, raising two plastic bags above his head.

            "Wait up!" I told him, showing him my palm as I pulled the windows closed and chose a decent headscarf from my closet. I was multitasking again as I locked the door, rechecking it in case it was undid. When I reached the last tread of the stairs, Frank was waiting, a beam tinting his face. "Where did you get the food?"

            "Mum cooked it just now. I told her I'm seeing a friend and she didn't ask anything. She's probably too happy she can be sure that I don't have sociophobia now," he told me as he walked. I offered to carry the plastic bags for him but he only handed me mine, insisting to carry his own.

            Frank showed us to a grassy part of the small town, a park that would be crowded with families during weekends. There were flower bushes banked on each sides of the paved footpath and I could see bees buzzing on top of the red flowers. A man passed us in his tracksuit, drenched at the front from his sweat, continuing his morning jog without sparing us a glance. I afforded a glimpse around and saw other men and women with towels and headbands, puffing their breath in and out as they jogged and a group of woman in late fifties stretching.

            "In the city, people don't do this. We just plan our health; what we should eat and how much we're going to exercise—and then abandon it," I let out a chuckle, shielding my face from the ray of sun that suddenly attacked me.

            Frank's mum's scrambled eggs tasted like fried bliss. It was like she cracked rapture into the pan instead of eggs and fried it with a cup of love. Sinking my teeth into the scrambled eggs filled bread, I groaned in contentment at my third bite. I could see mushroom, pieces of thinly chopped sausages, chilli pepper peeking from the scrambled eggs but it somehow tasted more. Frank laughed at me, persisting that I was just hungry.

            After breakfast, we made way to the beach. The clouds were white that day. They resembled floating cotton candy as we stood below them on the sand with Frank adjusting my camera.

            "What now?" I asked as he passed me the camera.

            "Take a picture," he told me, taking a step backwards.

            One of my eyebrows shot up, "Of what?"

            He rolled his eyes and threw his arms towards the sea, "Infinity and beyond."

            "Oh, right," I said, laughing.

            I raised the camera to my eyes and found a perfect angle immediately. I pressed the shutter and heard Frank yelling.

            "What was that?" I scrunched my nose at him.

            "I know what's your problem now," he gave me a knowing look. "You do not calm down when you take pictures, you don't wait for the perfect time."