Winter greeted us with its bitterness. Windchills slipped through our bodies and noses flamed bright pink as layers of cloth suffocated our fragile figures. While my classmates went to bars and carnivals, I was stuck here providing for my family at the local 24-hour convenience store. Chained to this cage of artificial lights, the occasional flicker would suck me from my daydreams back into reality. The monotony of my job drained me. I began to despise the mechanical sound of the cash register, the empty farewells, and the carelessly-recycled greetings. Most notably, I learned how to forget faces. Every figure that approached me was dull or hazy: a smudge on a canvas as a pale fog shrouded their features. The only string that tied our relationship together was built off expired cans and plastic bags, and already, was it fraying. There was no use in remembering fleeting faces; it was a waste of time, and would only further prompt the creation of bonds and betrayal of emotions. Why would I want to burden myself with such worries? Soon, I’d be off to university, and the memories of this convenience store would be cast away, reduced into nothing but ash. It was simply a source of money and a place where I sacrificed my ‘precious’ youth, although that didn’t matter much to me.
It was my Saturday night shift and the hours passed slowly as customers floated in and out, their masks of mist fitting squarely. I was sitting on the red swivel chair, too low for my preference, as I tapped away at my computer, hurriedly completing last-minute school work. My eyes were heavy and my body was begging for slumber but I refused to give in, no matter how tempting the thought of rest was. It was the early hours of morning and the city was in a state of serenity; the intense rage of traffic and stampede of passing civilians no longer deranged my senses. Beyond the shop window, the soft glow of street lamps leaked onto the street as a single cat attempted to tan under it, its soft belly facing the artificial light.
It was three in the morning when the bell rang, livening the stagnant air and indicating the presence of another. A girl strolled in, stopping to examine the store; her head rotating steadily as if she were scanning the landscape for predators. She hid within numerous layers of black jackets as it seemed to be overpowering her, but despite this, she managed to walk with unwavering poise. A hint of rose blossomed on her ghastly pale cheeks: a product of the wintry spell. There was nothing particular about this fragile girl that stood before me, fumbling her fingers as she cowered in her oversized jackets. The erratic thump of my heart never arose, nor did the constant swirl of emotions make me faint. However, our eyes met, fitting into each other like pieces of a puzzle. The drowsy mist I had conjured then dissipated into the floor. I realized that I had been so accustomed to the dull haze placed upon faces that it felt uncomfortable seeing people as they are, discomfort pricking at me. Everyone that I’ve encountered in my life were just pawns; nothing but a slight misfortune to my life. But somehow, this girl, a mere stranger, had managed to knock down my facade, peeling away at the mask that had once clung like gum onto her face. I squinted my eyes, closed them and even rubbed them. I tried pressing closer to the counter, helplessly struggling to reclaim the misty comfort I so childishly sought. But her stone-cold face just pierced back at me.
At that point, I gave up. Maybe it was due to the fact that I had forgotten the concept of a face, but hers didn’t just appear as a whole like one normally would. It was as if the pieces of her face had been stripped apart, floating away from its original canvas, begging to be sorted back into place. It took me a while to acknowledge their pleas and, once I finally did, the product was deathly mesmerizing. Her hair was sliced straight just above her shoulders. There was a fringe too—black uneven pieces dangling, tickling uncomfortably at her lashes; and yet, she showed no attempt to rid them. Her face was small and thin, with a noticeable jawline and sunken cheeks underlining the rest of her features.
Underneath her shroud of hair, her features were barely discernible as they trembled in the face of unfamiliarity, except for those eyes. She had small, mono-lidded eyes and dark circles underneath; signs of her sleepless nights, reminding me of my own. They were sharp, cut off at an edge, narrow and slender like the tip of a knife. It gave her a cold, haunting expression. She seemed unfeeling, unaffected by the touch of sentiment and hatred. But when you moved under the moonlight, that gaze, so seemingly cold, was just a facade. It was her shell, fragile and devoid of protection, attempting to conceal what was truly there. It was her eyes alone that stirred with heat, the warmth dripping like honey. The inch of moonlight hit her face perfectly, bathing her in its tenebrosity. With my limbs heavy like lead, throat dry and words swallowed, her gaze pierced through me from the pieces of strayed hair that fluttered occasionally. She was frighteningly beautiful.
As she neared the counter, striding silently, my senses grew less blurry and I was able to come to a conclusion. At that moment, I understood. Although she managed to maintain a stolid visage, the red tint under her eyes was undeniable: a product of distress. It was the incessant rubbing of eyelids in hopes to cease the stream of glistening tears tumbling down that formed the blotches of red. It was a stark contrast from her pale pearly skin that looked as if it would crumble beneath a single touch. Maybe it was heartbreak, or the passing of a close relative. Either way, it didn’t matter to me; it’s not like I wanted to know in the first place. I looked away, focusing on her finger that now motioned to the array of cigarette packs behind me, pointing directly at a Marlboro. Her eyes, hesitant to meet mine, were glued to the floor, and her hair dangled like the leaves of a willow tree. Her choice of purchase was understandable: a means of escape, a temporary divergence from pestering thoughts as it floated away as one with the smoke. Then, as I finished enhancing the change, I spotted the slightest tilt of her head. She made her way out the door, stopping to look back at me, frozen between the cold of the city and the radiating warmth of the store, eyes still cold and unfeeling. It took me a while to process the act as a motion for companionship; something to rid the solitude bearing down on her. I stumbled after her like a child, abandoning my post.
She stood under the streetlamp, the tanning cat now out of sight. As she tilted her head to blow out the smoke, small translucent spirals floated above, identical to the winter mist that breath produced. I watched them as they twirled heavenward like vines desperate for the sun’s touch, reaching to grasp something unknown to the naked eye. Indeed, the smell was putrid as I struggled to contain the cough building within me. Before I could respond, she forced a cigarette in my hand, nudging me to place it in my mouth. I did as motioned, the dry paper rubbing against my teeth. An unpleasant feeling, like the grinding of chalk against a board. She inched closer to me, the bitter smell overpowering my senses. Our cigarettes met and I watched the curling smoke tiptoe across the bridge formed; its swirling wisps matched the smooth curves of a snake, intoxicating the tip of my cigarette as grey wrinkled at the edges.
She backed away, allowing me to take a deep drag. Like a strike of lightning, it came in a rush, racing down my throat, prickling at the sides. It collected in my lungs, infesting anything in its reach like spreading moss, slowly blinding the bark beneath into utter darkness. Naturally, I began coughing, expelling the smoke from my body as they dispersed in white clumps—drastically different from the mesmerizing curls she had produced earlier. It was so unlike what I imagined. I transferred the cigarette from my mouth to the clasp of my fingers, the smouldering edges intoxicating the air. The aching stench, however, lingered. As tears welled up in the corner of my eyes, her laugh, smooth and slippery, broke the aching silence of the lonely night. There was unrestrained mirth beaming from her crinkling eyes. I had never heard her voice until then. It was music to my ears; its hypnotic spell capable of sending men into a trance. Underneath the pale moonlight, her features no longer seemed as hostile as before.
My heart wasn’t thumping with desire, nor was my face flushed with the brightest pink, yet I gathered up a slight smile. Yes, she was breathtaking, but it wasn’t her that caused this sudden bloom of bliss; it was the moment. The glow of the streetlamp, the coarse smoke running down my throat, her gentle laugh and swollen eyes, the cold wrapping around me, and the forgotten haze of faces. It was all those new-found emotions that were intoxicating and filling my mind, electrifying my blood, fuelling passionate desire. It was the first crack in the shell I spent years so diligently fabricating, and despite this decay of my hard efforts, relief was all that I could feel. We were just two strangers, living lives unknown to the other, no words exchanged in our meeting. The only way our paths converged lay within these cigarettes, dying and stale in our hands as we shared them silently amidst the lonely mornings of winter.