i. Crossing Over
In a moment, a man and a woman will need to cross the same zebra crossing. She’s right across from him and he’s right across from her. There the road lies, and there she is. They’re waiting. What are they waiting for? For the green light. And for love a bit, too. But they don’t know that about one another. Although – their eyes meet, for a brief moment, their eyes meet while they are waiting to cross over. Cross over to where? To the rocks? The first letter of the word crossing: the sea? The man and the woman feel something welling up inside their bodies, waves lapping against the quayside, two beer cans rolling down a set of stairs, two lovers kissing. Then, the light turns green. Not their light – as if a light could belong to anyone – but a different light at the same intersection. Another side of the square opens up for pedestrians. Chopin’s first nocturne. The man and the woman will cross over soon. Into the night? The black lines, the white keys. A zebra. The clattering of hoofs. There the rider sits, and there the sea is. Will the man and the woman unify between day and night? For a brief moment their eyes meet. Then, the light turns green. He turns to the sea, jumps in, and she starts walking. Their eyes knit together – one thread, two needles. She swims towards him, and he walks up to her. As they look into each other’s eyes, two thoughts cross over to each of them in their minds. The thoughts embrace, blend together, as they pass each other, their hands nearly brush past one another. Threads of saliva. Fraying. The capsizing zebra. The splashing sea. Across the street, they turn to look at each other once more, like two old lovers who’ve never met. And they wave at each other. He at her, and she at him. And they waved. Nobody can mark the exact spot where day and night fade into the other, where tomorrow ends and today begins. One wave picks up the next, someone slams a car door shut, someone steps on the pedal, the screeching tyres in the screeching wind …
ii. A Bridge
An old man is standing on a bridge. The sun – a red ball – the sky. Not red like a snooker ball. A different, softer red, a dead branch, a billiard cue in his eyeline. He reaches towards the sun, as if wanting to grab her between his finger and thumb. The old man wants to measure the sun between his finger and thumb. He casts his eyes downwards, to the fresh green grass, where a group of teenagers are smoking cigarettes, dancing and drinking wine. A smoking girl laughing, the budding city. She sputters up the houses, the trees and the fountains. A boy kisses the girl on the cheek. There’s a woman on the grass too. She’s stoically reading a book. She is the sphinx. The woman turns the page. Because the sun is not the colour of a snooker ball, the green grass turns into a green snooker table baize. The girl laughs. The girl laughs, a red pyramid in the grass. The white lines on the snooker table, the sunset – the old man closes his eyes. Everything is black. There, the moon. The dead branch knocks the moon against the sun, and the sun disappears into the black hole in the corner of his eye. A teardrop runs down the wineglass, down his cheek, down the window, down her chest, into the water under the bridge between … A crying tram lets go the word tristesse on a concrete square. That’s when the teenagers laugh, the sun comes up. The sphinx turns the page. She runs her fingertips down the page, moonwalking feet. I arrange the red balls into a triangle. The old man, the girl, the sphinx. The new game can begin. What game? Life? Love? The dead branch glides into her eyeline. The sphinx turns the page. Then the moon appears. A white crescent. Someone starts mowing the grass. It’s springtime, the leaves turn different shades of red. The next morning, the sun appears above the bridge. I’m in bed. The summer’s day feels ancient, deceased like a beautiful thousand-year-old mummy, swathed in rays of gold. I place the book on my nightstand and turn the final page. There, the old man appears. He’s smoking a cigarette and shapes his hand into a bridge, an ‘x’, a kiss. He’s ready to knock the black ball into the black hole and permanently gain the upper hand. Then he will have won. Then the game is over. Then he can cross the bridge …
iii. Little Cross
You turn the page. There’s a little cross there. Years ago, you drew a little cross there because you found this sentence so beautiful. You found the sentence so beautiful because it reminded you of the old man you passed on the zebra crossing. You remember the sycamores, the town houses, the fountain, the ‘x’ on the traffic sign. You found the man so beautiful that you automatically felt like kissing him. But a few minutes later, instead of kissing the man, you drew a little cross next to the sentence you found so beautiful. You read the sentence you find so beautiful, and as you walk up to the man to kiss him you draw a little cross on the page. You kiss the sentence as a pedestrian turns the corner. That’s where you dog-ear the page. You turn the page and start crying because you’ve just crossed something out – crossed out the most beautiful man. Then you turn the page and cross the bridge. There, the moon appears.