The Oddity

Is 'silence' the best answer? Then, under the aegis of the means known as 'telepathy', can such be felt, confirmed and responded in sequence? No way or yes so seldom. But, yes, the interplay of the minimal dedication--unyielding to this isolating trait--of the sort is practically needed for us rather than counting on such sublime means reserved for ones with introspective clairvoyance of the sort.  And for being so poorly gifted with this quality of ‘opening up’ for more convenience in reaching an end, a decision, rather than locking up for nothing I wonder how I can make such remarks. I find myself who can remain pondering on to the end of one’s life, when the way back is all grey and modest in retrospect. When, as it’s said, only the major events of one’s life, from the best to the worst, can return as the flashbacks that shape the mood of the leaving soul.  I had been absorbed so again in such muse that enabled or made me stand or remain in the same position or place for the moment when I could get back to myself or someone might wake me up accidentally. It was her who hurled this question at me across the glass-topped dining table. I had no idea how long I had been in such trance but felt sorry for leaving her so. I felt this growing self-consciousness, the acute spite for my abnormality but it had soothed me a lot, what she might have thought of me or how she had seen me.

She was in the same tight dark jeans and a pink woolen pullover. The palms of her hands clasped against each other with the one thumb on the other, the tops of the clasped fingers pressed between her thighs nearing knees and she was slightly moving like trying to pull them out. She was looking at me. Her feet in the felt slippers were slapping on the floor like waking me up. She was waiting for my answer. But, as she thought that I hadn't got it, she asked me again.

‘How old are you?’ Her eyes dancing with the sort of conversational jest behind the glasses, her lips parted like about to add something or make way to a friendly grin.

‘Oh, sorry, I am 34,’ I replied tersely and observed her expression.

‘But you look much younger like 24 or 25,’ she said with the same jest in her eyes.

‘What do you think how old I look like?’

‘Like 22 or 23,’ I speculated with a mind not to say higher.

‘You’re right. I am 22,’ she said with her fingers up making the sign of ‘victory’.

I got that I could say the right thing that she looked pleased. Yes, when dealing with a woman, I tended to care not to hurt her out of a gained knowledge that a woman is always so sensitive. Even for her being more open and yielding to what I took as the start of the sentimental torment or joy I found myself holding back with a sort of isolating trait. I just wished everything could be settled by ‘telepathy,’ the damning obstinacy for more complex convergence. I got that it couldn't from my past several encounters. But a faint dawn was almost on, a way to walk ahead to take someone by surprise not by this habitual muse but by another means, to listen attentively…

She was staring at me through the same jest in her eyes and with the same parted lips. Oh, she must be surprised of me, the way I behaved… I couldn't stop thinking so and found myself choked finding nothing to strike up a conversation but getting a sequence of fake telepathy occurring between us. How such could be possible? She seems to be communicating through it but how she could get what the nonsense I hold, I felt sorry for I couldn't stop going into such trance again that the circumstances entailed for me.  Her parted lips, jest in her eyes were there as the backdrop during the moment taken. The whole moment was something for me and something another for her, I sensed.

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