Three Stories

One.

His:

1) She slips her tongue through her teeth, around the inside curve of her lips, to adjust her lip gloss.

2) Her last sleeping breath before awakening.

3) The second syllable of his name on her voice, MA, which strikes a chord somewhere from his childhood.

Hers:

1) Dark eyelashes splayed against his cheek, like paper fans masking demure eyes.

2) Those spidery fingers.

3) Once, before she knew him, his sideways glance stopped her words. It made her stomach grow inside of her; she thought she had swallowed a cloud.

Theirs:

1) Knotted arms, like hair, one too tired to untangle them, the other too tired to notice.

2) Love, or its other names.

3) Sometimes, it is hard to tell whether they are two people combined, or one person on the brink of separation. Brown-blue eyes, mixed skin, it is not so easy to distinguish the lines between them.

It is crowded on the streets of Ginza –people weave through people and through other people again, some grand fabrication of humanity where she realizes she is only one insignificant thread.

But—

The slip of his hand over hers, like rough silk, distinguishes her. More than anything in this moment, she loves his gentle pull from the crowd, a needle with its own agenda, the light of his eyes close to her own as he finds a space for them where none existed. Her heart races, his small smile blinds, his voice deafens,

I thought I'd lost you.

"It won't be the same," there is a hint of bite to his words, "if you stand over my shoulder while I'm writing it."

Mimi frowns distinctly. "Should it matter?"

He turns in his chair to face her with an exasperated look.

"I already agreed to write the stupid thing; can you at least let me do it at my own pace?"

If possible, her frown deepens. Or maybe it's her eyes that shrink.

"Fine." She says, stomps to the opposite side of the room, flops rebelliously on the couch. "And if it's so stupid, why are you even bothering?"

He rolls his eyes and she sticks her tongue out at him in return, then buries her face in a throw pillow. He watches her for a few extra seconds, debating on whether he should apologize, but then she kicks her feet in a little tantrum and he turns back to the blank page, resigned.

From the corner of his eye, he spies her glance up, slyly, then slam her face back down.

Minutes of silence pass, then,

"You haven't written anything yet."

He kicks himself away from the table.

"You're impossible!" He snaps.

She sits up on her hands, "You're being stubborn! Why can't you just do something romantic for once?"

He seems on the verge of retort but stops himself. Instead, glaring vehemently, Yamato scribbles something on the page. Then he throws down the pen and makes for the door.

"I'm late." He pushes on his shoes and hoists his bass over his shoulder. "I'll call tonight."

Then he shuts the door behind him.

Mimi, who had been glaring this entire time, now throws the pillow on the floor. She marches to the door and locks it violently, then slams herself down at the table.

The paper seems intent on matching her vehemence. Finally, with an irritated, conciliatory murmur, she drags it across the table.

True to her original suspicion, it is mostly blank. On the very bottom of the page is his sharp, familiar handwriting. Four words exactly: there sings no bird

It takes her a second to translate then, after a long irritating moment, she delicately crumples the paper and leaves it on the table.

She is still mad when hours later, and refuses to answer the phone when he does calls that evening. She even stays purposefully asleep when he returns to her apartment –she hears his presence lingering at the door, and makes no sound at all when he whispers, "I'm going home, but I'll see you on Sunday."

The next morning, she awakes in a mood to be reckoned with and storms into the kitchen. On the table, she sees that the would have been letter lies ever so slightly uncrumpled next to an empty coffee cup. Curiosity ultimately trumping her pride, she allows herself a small glance at the four lonely words on the bottom of the page. But –her heart gives a hysterical leap –they are accompanied now by new words. She sits and stares intently.

There sings no bird but calls your name to me

Each memory that has left its trace with me

Lingers forever as a part of me.

And in tiny letters, more tiny than his small writing even, are five more words: Is this what you wanted? She covers her mouth to keep from crying.

When he walks through the door on Sunday afternoon, she kisses him a million times. And tells him, with mild amusement, that he'll never have to write her a letter again.

Disclaimer: I don't own Digimon.

Three more vignettes from my theme list. The theme of the first is "a series of unlikely but significant events"; the second theme is "lost in the crush of anonymity"; the last is "dear love, I've never had to write a letter like this".

Ginza is an expensive district in Tokyo, where rich fashionable people do rich and fashionable things.

The words that Yama wrote in the letter are from the Eric Clapton song "I Am Yours" off the album "Layla and Other Assorted Love Songs". I'm assuming Mimi knew this, or maybe she didn't. Oh well.

One of those impulsive posts that come every so often, hence the lack of grammatical correction. But I hope you enjoyed them anyway.

-Artemis