The Visually Nothing
THE VISUALLY NOTHING;; G
It's a bad habit, the way they call each other at night, only when they would need it. Not really each other, just that need, that never ending need to hear another voice - a voice to repeat back the words you want to hear, the words you want to say, the words you need vocalized that you can never tell yourself.
"Hey," one of them inevitably starts, voice chalice, brisk, and whispered. It's a secret, these phone calls. A secret that lasts years more than it's supposed to.
"I'm really cold." Liyin talks about the weather. It's chilly when they talk in the mornings, fog impending doomsday warnings. It's gloomy when their calls end up somewhere in the middle of the day, mid-tea, buildings swaying, rush hour traffic serving as background noise. It's always frigid and unbearable when they talk at night, leaves chilled, crickets chirping, old cities stirring with age. They talk the most at night.
"I haven't eaten a thing all day." Zhoumi's on a diet. This one is an European fad - the only bread, no water fad. He's lasting three days on it at a time before he breaks and tries to start another one that Liyin fails to talk him out of.
"I miss the way your hands feel." he says when she talks about the rain in Beijing. He's in Guangzhou where it's snowing and it's the harsh kind of snow, the kind that grazes your face in intermissions of stings and the ground is unforgiving to walk on. They hold hands by placing their fingers on a tangible object nearby; cars, windows, pillows, strangers, it's all pretend - their other hand is forever miserably clutched desperately to the phone.
"You've gotten so skinny," she observes him over a computer, webcam being one missing link, the other piles of pictures she has opened up from the event he's walked the night before. She has pictures of him from every angle, full body, right profile, left profile and she can expertly tell when he's taking his diet too seriously. "You need to eat more. I'll mail you some beef." He winks over the webcam, stretching in his bed, waving off her suggestions.
"You've got a great voice." They see each other for work once a year, it is just routinely once a year they get to hear and see each other work in a public capacity. They forget what it's like to be famous. They forget that it's a secret. Those talks, those longings to be one of the rest.
They sit next to each other, watching the real stars shine on stage, faces glistened, eyes searching in the crowd yearning for more and receiving the same yearn back with unadulterated screams and vying appreciation. Something they never have. "Someday that will be us. Someday." Zhoumi sneaks a hand between their plastic chairs, where it's void, dark, sheltered, and that familiar need can be hidden behind the glittery show onstage, the lights, the crazed attention. Liyin sneaks a hand back, delicate and desperate, anxious if someone might see. Something unfolds for the tenth time over and stops again. The thing is, no one ever bothers to see.
It's not a habit that anyone else would care about.
It's a bad habit, the way they call each other at night, only when they would need it. Not really each other, just that need, that never ending need to hear another voice - a voice to repeat back the words you want to hear, the words you want to say, the words you need vocalized that you can never tell yourself.
"Hey," one of them inevitably starts, voice chalice, brisk, and whispered. It's a secret, these phone calls. A secret that lasts years more than it's supposed to.
"I'm really cold." Liyin talks about the weather. It's chilly when they talk in the mornings, fog impending doomsday warnings. It's gloomy when their calls end up somewhere in the middle of the day, mid-tea, buildings swaying, rush hour traffic serving as background noise. It's always frigid and unbearable when they talk at night, leaves chilled, crickets chirping, old cities stirring with age. They talk the most at night.
"I haven't eaten a thing all day." Zhoumi's on a diet. This one is an European fad - the only bread, no water fad. He's lasting three days on it at a time before he breaks and tries to start another one that Liyin fails to talk him out of.
"I miss the way your hands feel." he says when she talks about the rain in Beijing. He's in Guangzhou where it's snowing and it's the harsh kind of snow, the kind that grazes your face in intermissions of stings and the ground is unforgiving to walk on. They hold hands by placing their fingers on a tangible object nearby; cars, windows, pillows, strangers, it's all pretend - their other hand is forever miserably clutched desperately to the phone.
"You've gotten so skinny," she observes him over a computer, webcam being one missing link, the other piles of pictures she has opened up from the event he's walked the night before. She has pictures of him from every angle, full body, right profile, left profile and she can expertly tell when he's taking his diet too seriously. "You need to eat more. I'll mail you some beef." He winks over the webcam, stretching in his bed, waving off her suggestions.
"You've got a great voice." They see each other for work once a year, it is just routinely once a year they get to hear and see each other work in a public capacity. They forget what it's like to be famous. They forget that it's a secret. Those talks, those longings to be one of the rest.
They sit next to each other, watching the real stars shine on stage, faces glistened, eyes searching in the crowd yearning for more and receiving the same yearn back with unadulterated screams and vying appreciation. Something they never have. "Someday that will be us. Someday." Zhoumi sneaks a hand between their plastic chairs, where it's void, dark, sheltered, and that familiar need can be hidden behind the glittery show onstage, the lights, the crazed attention. Liyin sneaks a hand back, delicate and desperate, anxious if someone might see. Something unfolds for the tenth time over and stops again. The thing is, no one ever bothers to see.
It's not a habit that anyone else would care about.