The Eyes With No Pearl Earring
April 14, 2014

As drops form a pattern that blurs the glass window to the world outside, I look at the falling rain and think about you.

You don’t know this, but in the stack of posters that lie underneath the black couch, mixed with old advertisement papers and condoms that might have expired this year, there’s a picture of your smile as I’ve never seen before. The face of you smiling in my memory has always been with the pair of round pale cheeks and eyes softly nice, unlike your usual straightforward stare. The smile that is wide enough to melt your cool obliviousness and eyes so sweet they melted mine as I gazed into yours, mellowly acknowledging that those eyes looked at another. The laughable, almost ridiculous irony, is that I’ve always thought that picture of your smile was focused and clear – as you had too, but after in quietness I sneaked your smile into my phone memory, it turned out to be blurry, just like the picture of the people around you. You remarked to me that the picture was blurred at the edges, around Oliver’s face and mine. We all were actually blurred.

In that poster, the one hiding under the couch, the one of you surrounded by even more people, is your face, slightly blurred as well, unlike the other faces. I suspect that you were unprepared for the picture. Perhaps you were in motion. Yet as I looked intently at your face, immortalized on a coloured piece of paper, the fascination swayed me in deeper and deeper. You look straight at me, yet it isn’t the cool gaze that had enthralled my eyes for a year – it is a look I’m not familiar with, yet I’m savouring that gaze curiously veiled in uncertainty.

It is the same uncertainty that a girl with a humble pearl earring once revealed through a painting. Your lips are as parted, and your eyes as whole as hers.

As I cling to you, the uncertainty sinks its fingertips deeper into my memories. As I reluctantly separate myself from the paper, so do the knuckles of uncertainty.

Yet as I lay helplessly in the crackling voice of Lykke Li holding in her nearly audible cry, I look back at the eyes that I gazed into in the dark as I plainly anticipated the word “friends.” The eyes whose genuine concern was clear under the yellow light, that I stubbornly, effortfully refused to face yet couldn’t run away from for long. The eyes that I impatiently tore my own from, that I wished deep down would watch me disappear but not see my thick sobs filling the air. The eyes that I knew that night would not look at mine like the year before, that would mirror someone else’s eyes.

And then, the eyes on the paper, the ones blurred with uncertainty. The eyes that I wonder about – the eyes unadorned with a pearl earring.

Underneath the sky the rain has stopped, leaving the wind to blow wistfully on the bowing grass.