How Would You Speak of Love When Language Dies? (Volume I)

V. Of those that speak of golden complexions and sundowns

══════════════════

For the love that almost made it to sunrise.

For the love that had always been.

"I loved her to the point of invention."
— Sarah Ruhl on her play,
THE CLEAN HOUSE

══════════════════

Entry V.
THE STORY OF THE FIFTH LAMPPOST IN SUTTON TOWN, LONDON

"Do you still like your coffee black?"

Sundown's only a few minutes ahead from hitting Sutton Town. And I think it's far ahead enough to fit this little conversation before night unfolds. Only a few minutes from this very moment, the five lampposts here at the street of my village would start lighting up one by one. The one above us is the fifth and the last.

Still a few more minutes left.

"No. I prefer green tea now more than coffee," I say, my lips curving upward. "You? You still like using grocery receipts as your bookmarks?"

He cracks a laugh. "I don't read that much now. I mean, if we were to talk about books."

"Occupied with cases?"

"Somehow."

I shrug. Normal thing. "I see."

Click. There's the first lamppost. And it catches both of our attentions. He quickly shifts his gaze to the right—somewhere darting it on the lamppost from Corell Street.  The old bulbs lighting up the lampposts here always create a clicking sound even heard from a distance. It's a only few blocks away from the bench we're sitting at. 

And somehow, it pulls me to stare at him. I'm not sure if it's the sun setting in front of us or just the little lines folding at the corners of his eyes as the sunlight hits his eyes, but it's... captivating. The sun still looks nice on his golden complexion.

He raises a brow, turning his head to my direction. "Why are you staring?" he asks, lips wincing to a smirk.

I laugh. "Am I making you feel uncomfortable?"

"No. Of course not." It turns to a thin-lined smile.

I give him back that smile. Always so endearing—I don't know how he does it. I wish I can always feel that. "How's... everything back there?"

"There?" He blinks at me. "It's fine. My sister wants you to come home though. Can't give her a definite answer because I don't know if you'd really come home."

Click. Second lamppost.

It pulls both of our gazes again. And now, there's a fiery shade of red on his skin coming from the horizon.

"Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"Still thinking about it," I say and I feel his eyes back on me again. I look away and drown my gaze beneath the skyline before us. God, everything looked so minute from here. "If you were me, would you come home?"