Her perfume still in my nostrils as a hangover from strong liquor that begs for more has kept me up all night to welcome the dawn with its strong sprout sun as I take my tenth bath of the day to ward off the itching from the humid air. The melodious racy sound of Tibetan words she spoke on the phone sitting across me on the table on which plates of food were strewn reverberate in my mind as mores code signal of WWII in a long deserted army camp.
The little restaurant in an upstairs of a business area with its cool, silent and dim aura had channelled our minds to nonchalance to the melting heat of the eye-piercing bright late afternoon outside. The momos, the boneless chilly chicken and soup we shared, according to the note of the manager of the restaurant on the first page of the menu that kept me thinking if only all restaurants had it for their new comers, easily led us to chirp in our minds on a number of issues, and most of all it tied us down to relate stories of our peoples who have gone through worse times. If I had anything left unsaid over the meal, it would only be of her seductive eyes and the faces she makes when she dances which has always sprang up in front of my eyes when I meet her. My comments on women, and shorts and sleeveless clothes during summer time which she found lewd didn’t lead the stories of our peoples to divergent directions of unheeding ears. The stories themselves blended creating between us a pact that didn’t need our signatures when they ended.
If our next meeting before she leaves this city is our last one, it will make her omnipresent smile bold emitting from her small eyes and milky teeth which I saw on my first day in campus as I waited for my name to be called up for registration. I guess it will be a goodbye bequeathing memories that resist farewells.