A Thin Slice of Pie.

I

Flickering blobs of yellow and orange- that was all I could see with my eyes half-closed. When I shut my eyes, it was a pitch black interrupted occasionally by flame-coloured pinpricks. But I opened them up quickly; I had to if I didn’t wish to walk headlong into a tree-trunk.
I am walking through The Sakura University premises. The university was named after Sakura Yoko, the founder principal’s Japanese wife. Of course no cherry blossoming festivals take place here, that’s a legacy solely intended and carried out by the Japanese. Nevertheless, the campus of Sakura University is dotted with trees- Buckeyes, Birches, Elms, Dogwoods, Willows, Maples; and the flowers don’t make themselves scarce in the summers either. We are half-way through August now, which accounts for the sweep of yellowish-brown and crimson leaves obscuring the tentative greens underneath.
I walk alone, my jute bag bundled up in my left fist. I can’t say for sure if I have any friends at all. Sure I know several students, but that is probably out of pure necessity. I’m wistful yes, but not sad. It isn’t easy for me to carry out niceties and I don’t think that’d get me far. Not where I want. If I look carefully, I can spot a few green-leaved trees. If I look carefully.
He has his back to me but I know it’s him. There’s no mistaking the shock of jet black hair, or the loosely fitted pastels that he generally dons. He’s alone, sitting in a natural cup of earth, in the redundant shade of an Elm. My breath catches, I keep walking though. I look ahead, he’s right there – a few feet away on my right. But I don’t use my peripheral vision this time. I’m done with underhandedness, even if it is to the slightest degree. I’m done with longing for something that no one possesses. I’m done with filling up the gaps in people’s personalities with my own dreams.

II

I’ve always been fond of oranges. Especially the sour kind. They make your taste buds tingle; I suppose that’s partly why tennis players squeeze freshly cut lemons down their throats during half-time.
There’s a large orange tree in my garden, which is not much of a garden. Of course, it’s not laden with fruit this time of the year, but its leaves still hold that slightly heady tangy smell I utterly love.
I begin to walk towards the edge of my garden. My feet are pulling me along, and my mind’s a white blank sheet of paper. It’s twilight, I think, because the sky’s streaked with lavender and there’s no sign of a sun. The compound wall of my house is short, and rather grimy, but it has a country-side charm that several architects strive to achieve for their posh, pseudo-intellectual customers, but fail. My feet stop only inches away from collision; my nose is on the other side of the wall. An inexplicable, vague fear grips me, I can’t speak. There is nobody to speak to, of course, but this time I’m aware of incapacity to move volitionally. My heart’s thudding, I can feel a thin strand of hair sticking wetly to the nape of my neck. It isn’t humid enough to perspire. I don’t know what has gotten hold of me. But I know it is imperative to keep silent. Without moving a muscle, I look at the thick foliage of the adjacent garden. The leaves look a dreary purple and maroon, like rhodendron, in the dimness. I can see a portion of the silhouette of a house- my neighbors’ house. It isn’t illuminated from the inside….wait. No. There’s an orangish glow in one of the upper-storey rooms, a small light. Blink your eyes and it’s gone, blink again and it sparkles as clear as a star. My pupils dilate, then constrict, attempting to focus on the orange flicker. Now I can see a sort of rucksack, the shadow of a chair and a boy-not the boy himself, but a part of his torso. My neck refuses to crane, and that sense of dread lengthens still.
“Hello. You’re a girl by the looks of it.”
I recoil at the sudden voice; my eyes instantly zoom to the upper-storey room with the orange glow. There’s no boy in there.
“Well?”
My eyes struggle a little to focus on the speaker. I cannot see much of his features; he’s decidedly tall and lean. No, bony, I decide. He doesn’t look like he works out. And his eyes sparkle a little but I cannot discern their colour. He probably wears a slight stubble, judging from his silhouette. And his hair’s poking about – a dirty brown is my guess.
“Uh, who’re you?” I ask.
“I’m your neighbor. New neighbor. You know the Greens right?” A slight drawl, too smooth.
I shake my head. What’s he talking about?
“Your neighbors! They own this house…you didn’t know they were called Green?”
“I’ve never spoken to them. For that matter, I never noticed their house had two storeys.”
“That’s strange. What are you doing prowling about here then?”
The apprehensiveness has slowly faded away; I feel nothing, as usual. I turn abruptly and head home. I don’t care for inquisitive new neighbors.