I Lie

Dripping Sorrow

Lie Ko — Sun, 04 Dec 2011 17:12:22 +0000

She stands with her ear pressed to the receiver, wound tightly in a mint green towel, dripping sorrow onto the floor. I’ll be there in twenty, she says in a voice too normal to be real. And I wish I could hug her, but it’s not my place. So I watch her pad back up the stairs and stay behind, staring at wet footprints.

She Grinned

Lie Ko — Wed, 09 Nov 2011 11:27:15 +0000

I noticed her because no one was giving up their seat. She struggled up the little step, hand supporting lower back, belly stretched to maximum. I was appalled at people’s selfishness. Over here, I called, and got to my feet. She gave me a sighy sort of smile and slid into my seat with unexpected elegance. She was pretty, I noticed then. The bus was its typical rush hour self and I was forced to turn towards her. Stomach pointing at her chin, knuckles white around the metal bar over her head because I didn’t trust the driver. My head crammed up against the roof and nowhere to look but down. At her. I studied the parting in her hair for the next few minutes. No roots that I could see: a natural blonde, for once. She had her hands wrapped around her stomach as if to keep it in place that way. She rubbed it absentmindedly. For a reason I couldn’t fathom, I felt a stab of attraction then. Bizarre, I thought. What’s wrong with you? But she looked so full of life. Suddenly the bus turned sharply and she fell out of her seat. I could feel the panic rippling out from her. I grabbed her arms to steady her and she looked up sheepishly. But as her eyes met mine, she halted her expression. She was on to me. And I was about to look away but spotted the sparkle in her eye. So what, I thought. I looked straight at her. I saw the lilac in her eyes. And she grinned unabashedly, with laughter in her posture and appreciation in her smile. So I grinned back.

Crisis

Lie Ko — Wed, 21 Sep 2011 09:08:22 +0000

Could you do me a favour and drop the scissors on my foot? Aim for the little toe if you possibly can. The smaller the surface, the more vivid the flash of pain. Don’t throw it but gently drop it, and try to steer its fall. I realize that this may be a strange request. It’s just that I need some pain to gauge the extent of my current crisis. Because I could be overreacting. I suspect I’m prone to that. But on a scale from one to five, I think this is a seven. Or a nine on a scale from minus twenty to two point five. But I’m not completely sure. And before I alert the authorities, I really need to know whether or not I have just cause. So, be a darling, the scissors are over there.

Rhythm

Lie Ko — Sat, 02 Jul 2011 10:40:54 +0000

I can’t get the girl to stop dancing inside my head. She has a passion for the Latin dances –tango, rumba, cha cha cha. She moves slowly and deliberately, twisting and turning her way into the corners of my mind. And as I listen to her steps echoing around my consciousness, I can’t help but wish that I, too, had a sense of rhythm.

Puddles

Lie Ko — Sat, 04 Jun 2011 13:35:53 +0000

Three bras –two black and a white one, hand washed in two separate bowls– are slouched over the back of a garden chair, dripping a puddle onto the tiles. Why three for just two days, I wonder. My daughter’s home for the weekend. Alone. A formation I’m no longer used to. And neither is she, I can tell. She walks around in one of the striped bath towels she got me for Christmas, swirling a Q tip around her ear and looking for all the world like she belongs. Her hair is wet, looks longer, makes her look younger and is dripping too, just like the bras outside. Look what you’re doing, I grumble, then regret it. Everyone should be allowed a day of making puddles of themselves. And anyway, it used to be her mother making those remarks, not me. I must be getting old. I blot the water with a kitchen towel and notice it smells sweet. I’m still trying to place the scent when she walks back in, wearing jeans and a T shirt and, I imagine, bra number four. I don’t think I’ll ever understand them. She’s making tea, her back to me, trying this scenario on as one of many possibilities. I’ll just move in with Dad. I can see it in the straight line of her shoulders. But there’s too much tension there and I know she’s unconvinced. She looks lost, in fact. I don’t know the details but I can read her like a floor plan. I’m not sure what to say. Keep trying, is stationed on the tip of my tongue. Life is like that. But I relegate it to the back. I know she knows that anyway. This weekend is a time out. She’s four again and hiding under a blanket turned into cave. When she comes out the world will look a little friendlier. So I do what I used to do: hand her a flashlight and her teddy bear. Two sugars for me, I remind her, and squeeze her shoulders. What a nice surprise to have you home, I say.