I'll wear the raincoat, and you can pick up the sticks...

I loved watching my mind play. It had now transformed the charmless voice of the tour guide into the sound of rubber being stretched. Not any more pleasing to the ear, but of greater variety nevertheless. Different forces applied at different angles gave rise to varying sounds. And of course, one could always play with rubber pieces of differing tensile strengths….

We seemed to have stopped for some ‘closer observation’ reason and my eyes wandered to my left. Roadside café—blue and white striped umbrellas, bright yellow plastic chairs, waitress in a flowered skirt traying tall glasses of lemonade—typical of a summer tourist city. Could have been anywhere in the world for all that I cared. The dull voice of the guide droned on, but this time my mind was refusing to jest.

And then—eyes. Arresting.

My own stopped wandering on looking into his. It was the only part of that figure seated at a table that stood out. Framed in a sallow face with graying hair on their path to total disappearance, the eyes were alive—still. Interesting, I thought, that I had used that last word.

The group had moved ahead and I jogged along to keep apace. No point losing myself in a new city of unknown tongues. And I settled back into the indifferent and uncaring attitude of a tired tourist following our guide only out of respect for the factual knowledge he possessed. Does anybody really pay attention to these guides, I asked aloud to no one in particular. I saw stones laid in pretty patterns beneath me, smoothed by the scurrying feet of millions and invaded by cigarette butts.

Random, wandering thoughts.

Arrested.

By a single thought.

I have to see that face again.

The best part about being your own master is that you don’t have to answer to anyone anytime. Nevertheless, as I ran back, I was courteous enough to shout that I would meet the group at the bus.

****

And I saw him again—this time intent on looking into his drink as he strawed it out. For a moment, I was lost—there was nothing telling me what to do now that I was here. I sunk into a yellow plastic demon, all of a sudden feeling powerless. Look into those eyes again and leave, I told myself.

But instead, I ordered a drink and spent a few minutes under the influence of a trained, rational mind. A half hour till the tour ends, a five minute trek to the bus, four more hours before I leave this city, forty eight before I fly home; the number crunching proving to be a strain on the rusty analytical side of my brain. And, after having firmly established that it would be completely useless and almost impossible time-wise to strike up a new friendship here, I picked up my glass and walked over to his table.

Along the way over, I tossed out the range of warnings being sent to me from some unwanted set of neurons.

“It is doomed”, he said as I sat down.

“Uh..”, I answered.

He looked up with surprise in his eyes. Obviously he was talking to the liquid in his glass, and had not even noticed me. I did notice though, that he spoke English.

“Why, hello”, he said.

“Hello”, I replied, “my guide bored me immensely and I thought you might be better company”. I spat that out and smiled.

So did he. “I will try—but you are so young.”

No sound of surprise there. No accent, apparently not a native. Strong teeth, not more than forty, although he looked much older. Unusually long, well kept fingers grasped the glass, not an outdoorsman for sure.

“Thank you, not many people think that way”, I said and paused. “Aaaargh, I wish it would stop”

“What would?”, he politely enquired.

“These thoughts of mine. They’re processing all your physical features in an effort to gauge your background; they wonder what the ‘it’ was that you said would be doomed; they're constantly curious, always seeking information. I wish they would give me a rest”.

He nodded and I went on.

“Its this training we are subjected to, that tells me I should follow the guide, or that says I should know more about you, that basically decides everything for me—everything that I’ve been trying to avoid.”

“Ah”. Not a talker, apparently.

I stopped, took a sip out of my glass, calmed my nerves and did what I had wanted to do. Stare right into those eyes—for a few minutes. The words then came to me again: alive—still.

And then I heard my voice saying, “They say you are going to die, correct?” Why I asked the question, I cannot say, because I knew the answer already.

Unflustered, he said, “Yes…that they do say.”

*****

Soon we were walking down an alleyway with huge trash disposal containers. I found us holding hands as we walked past the confining brick walls. And as one alley led to another, he talked about sickness and the impending loss of physical form. The struggling ant in his lemonade had been doomed. If I wanted, I could have all his remaining sketches.

The next few weeks we spent together were filled with a silent presence that threatened to douse us both if we relaxed. So we didn’t. We moved—everywhere his legs would take him, everywhere our trained and untrained thoughts would lead us. And then, two days after we had broken through the fetters of language, his breath stopped for good, almost—arrestingly. As if the only reason he had held on was to speak.

I moped around for a while, and finally when I could make up no more excuses for being away, I flew home. And into the arms of my wife, who had been waiting for two months to tell me she was carrying our first child.