Description

When I think of her, I hear light strum of chords in the back of my mind, musically as vivid as her thoughts; the kind of tune you hear when a sad, sweet song starts to play. I see a smiling face flash all over my retina, eager to touch the world with her soft fingers and capture the hearts of millions. In her mind, she was already famous, loved by millions of fans and busily preoccupied in her celeb-life.

Her name was Sasha. Others, on the other hand, now call her ‘Cher’, short for cherub. By the time I lost her, I figured out that her existence to me was as blissful as that of a butterfly’s; when she was around you, you would feel like all the happiness in the world being contained in her. She could laugh and smile at anything and I guess that was what she specialised in. You could be dressed in rags, or could be looking like Prince William in dark blue suit; she would always laugh in glee whenever she’d look at you. It was hard to decipher if she used to laugh to hide her shyness or her chagrin. But anyway…

Living in the silent, ignored neighbourhood of the bustling city, Sasha longed to live in a noisy, smog-clogged area, instead. For most of her 21 years, she lived quietly, with her mind full of questions, endless thoughts and most of all, rhyming words. She used to tell me she started writing ‘lines that rhymed’ when she was seven, in an effort to ‘squeeze an ocean into a gift box’; Sasha wanted to write poems for her mother’s birthday every year. After all, she was grateful to God for such a pretty lady for her mother who was her ideal for as long as Sasha could recall.

The first time I read her thoughts was when my male ego was terribly hurt; imagine being termed as the biggest pervert of the century when all I ever dreamt of was Ronaldhino’s lovely mansion of a house and a few Lamborghinis in my garage; when most of my time I used to design aero-dynamic bodies of hot wheels with graphite pencils on immaculate sheets of paper. One fine morning, Sasha received a sketch of herself that made her fume to such limits that her friends feared she might be capable of murder if someone taught her how to hold a gun correctly. Even though I have no idea what in the sketch enraged her to such limits, my guess is that her ever-calculating mind did put two and two together and came out with an image of me; her eavesdropping is to be blamed since she used my close bud’s description of art as ‘sheer hot models’ as her proof for all of her accusations ranging from dirty-mindedness to harassment.

I, being a thorough gentleman, only slammed my flat’s door in her face and didn’t answer any of her furious queries. Also, I tried to pull a stern look so as to hide my quizzical one. I still wonder in silence if I was flattered by her sudden appearance out of nowhere or shocked by the list of accusations a subtle girl could blurt out, one after another at me. However, after precisely three days, I received a well-deserved apology in this manner:

Hey,

Please allow me to take back,

My words that I launched like an attack,

As a result of my misunderstanding,

Including all the pain for you that it’d bring.

I hope you’ll be able to forgive me,

For my actions that caused you all the worry,

Please accept my sincere apology,

Cuz I am deeply ashamed and I’m sorry.

From,

The girl that accused you!

I laughed out as loud as my lungs allowed me when I read this.