Short Story: New Day
It was to be the first night of the new day. The evening had been pretty. The water splattered giant rock on which he was sitting, had played an able host to witnessing the magnificence of the setting sun. His heart had leapt like the tidal waves dashing on to the algae-clad green bottom of the giant rock. A splashing dwarf wave soaked his pants, like how he used to wet his shorts until his teens and then stopped doing so as if by magic. "Magic does happen" he thought, watching the diminishing orange.
It was only yesterday - in what seemed like ages - he stood inclined over the window sill watching two little boys flipping through pages of some book down the far side of their porch. He was little too, in those bed wetting days when passing his school exams was easier than waking up damp every morning. Not so much with the exam he had just written though. Writing had never intimidated him so much as those final moments.
One of the boys, finally, closed his book and walked wearily across the road to where he lost sight of the boy completely. He was weary too, he suddenly realized, and in need of some sleep. He did know, however, that sleep would elude him. Sleep it was, scribbling blurred images of things what were and things that could be. Murky impressions of what he spoke, what she spoke, what he said, what he wished she had said, imagining her imagining him, would she be imaging him the same way he does, does it matter.
Her image hovered over his drowsy mind, her lavender - her favorite lavender - seemed to brush his nostrils. That's why he sneezed, he thought. Lavender and sneezing - strange connections this mind can draw. Human mind is capable of 100 trillion calculations per second, he remembered reading somewhere. Probably he himself had written it. It doesn't matter though. His last piece of writing is what matters now. What was her first reaction when she read it - surprise, frown, did she shrink her eyes, did she raise her brows, heaved a sigh, would she have cried, probably she did, probably not. Probably she didn't even read it. The last idea sent a sting down his throat. No, she did read it. It's always better to think the way things were meant to be.
He needed to sleep. Sleep felt like a slippery pen, scribbling in Greek and Latin all over his mind. Or was it French. What difference do thoughts make when you can't make anything out of them? Just lines merging into images that keep inventing new stories every time they merge. But those shapeless images do comprise a story. Like a story narrated in a language you can't understand. A story about tomorrow, that would plot the lines for every next day from tomorrow. It would be fun, he assumed his images telling him.
But all that would have to wait. For now he just had to rest his eyes - not sleep - for a few minutes. He closed his eyes letting the floating figments of his imagination shrink into the tranquility of closed eyes. "Tomorrow it would be a new day. A brand new day.", the tranquility whispered. And he slept.
Another dwarf wave splashed on his pants. He walked back to his room along with bits of sand stuck to his soggy pants. He brushed them aside one grain by one with meticulous perfection, as though it were his only entertainment for the rest of his life.
It was not very long since then, that he was about to hear a knock on his door. He knew so. He could already smell the lavender. It was to be the first night of the new day.