Musings

[Ersa]

A collection of musings and updated.

 

[Ersa]

To awake from a dreamless slumber and discover such a gift awaiting me was the most thrilling experience. Words can move one's heart. How shall I reply to such a gift? It is strange you feel so close, yet our distance is not defined. My manicured fingers graze over the keys of my laptop with the gentleness of a pianist touching the ivory and ebony of a grand piano.


As I sit at my desk, the office is brightly lit and decorated with furnishings I have not chosen but are most fitting for such a space. A desk of wood, antique in age. What stories could it tell if it could speak? Space for parchment and ink with quills of metal and feather. Draws locked and unlocked once filled with secrets now housed bits of notes and schedules. Scratches that could tell tales of anger and strife or perhaps heartbreak and loss. Who sat here before me? Before the technology of computers and keys. What words were written here? Laws, memoirs, letters to a friend or foe, maybe even a lover or two. Drawn out days and sleepless nights, it is the most fitting place for me now.

Our world, though formless, bright as this room yet void of all its decor and regalia, has yet to be built. Shall we start at home, in an office, or meet at a cafe or nightclub? The places we could go and the people we become are endless possibilities.

An innocent kiss. You leave me with such a gift. It was a simple kiss, yet powerful enough to sway me. How odd since we are but strangers. I imagine those hands; would they be firm yet gentle? Your skin, what scent would linger on them? Something masculine and spiced or fresh and clean, void of perfumes. Is your hair so short I cannot grab hold of it? Would those eyes gaze into my soul or look past me? I imagine your voice. Does it have a low baritone that chides me gently? Or a peal of deep laughter that reddens my cheeks.

Your lips pressed to mine, soft and pillowy. The pout naturally formed. The taste of tea on my lips. A slight sweetness from the sweetener. Your fingers to my skin. The cold digits feel refreshing to my warmed facade.

My image for you is but a young woman. Not so young that she is new to life and the world but not so old that realities jade her. Skin kissed by sunlight, golden and tawny. Average in height, with a womanly build ripe for childbearing but soft and delicate as an unplucked rose. My hair falls to my hips in waves, and curls of chestnut fade into a silvery grey at the edges. Hazel's eyes are bright with new curiosities, constantly seeking knowledge and wishing to learn more.

I await you again. Where shall we start? I play the part of a mailable lover. Craving and needing to please and be pleased by her lover. Shall I make you a cup of coffee? Or assist in buttoning up your shirt as you get ready in the morning. Shall we have breakfast? Or is it a weekend, and we can lounge around the house? Is it warm outside or cold? I wish to lay in bed with you. My head onto your chest as I read aloud from novels of unknown names and authors strangers. My hair tickles your skin. The warmth of sunlight shining through the windows cast its light onto our skin.

The dance between you and I has yet to begin, and here, I can only look forward to it with the excitement of the unknown.

 

[Ersa]

Perched atop a hill along the Hamptons, Estelle, as it was called, a replica of a farmhouse chateau, offered stunning views of the Atlantic coast. Estelle was situated on a property that appeared out of fantasy—a perfectly manicured garden filled to the brim with flora and fauna stuffed with rows of herbs and vegetables. Trees budding with fruits, nuts, and life littered the space in perfect harmony. The acreage boasted a mansion with no less than five bedrooms, six bathrooms, walk-in closets, cosy nooks and areas. A massive open-concept living room led to a kitchen that excited any home cook enthusiast. A French farm dining table that could seat twelve awaited gatherings of friends and family for meals and festivities. Perfection outwardly but inside, a storm brewed as the oceanic air flowed through the double doors and cast warm breezes over the three people seated at the antique table - two men and a woman.

"We don't have to do this," the man at the head of the table addressed the two on either side of him. He was overly dressed in a house that demanded its occupants wear light cotton button-downs, chino shorts, and sun dresses.

Richard Dresden was not in the mood for what was about to happen. As a judge, he found joy in many aspects of his work. Playing the devil's advocate was not easy for anyone with a weak heart, but he was made of steel. Unfortunately, being a lawyer also meant handling the most unfortunate cases. The worst for himself was sin. Richard considered himself a good Christian. Marriage is a sacred covenant between two people who pledge to understand, support, and love one another. Divorce represents the breaking of religious vows. This home visit was a quiet favour to his best friend's daughter.

The man sitting to his right appeared severe and calm, but his eyes, which were weathered and bloodshot, kept darting towards the woman sitting across from him. He had just come from work and was still wearing his chef coat, buttoned to his chin. His sandy blonde hair was tousled from repeatedly running his hand through it. He avoided touching the documents before him, treating them as if they contained a contagious disease. He was unwilling to even look at the manila folder.

The woman seated to Richard's left was a stunning sight. Her brown hair reached her waist and was styled in soft waves. She was dressed in a white blouse and a light grey cardigan. She held a small packet of papers, which she was attentively reading with a fountain pen still capped in her hands. Her scrutiny and attention to detail were reminiscent of a surgeon's precision.

"He's right, you know. We..." The chef started to say but was abruptly cut off.

"You're right. It is not too late. It's perfectly on time," the woman said coolly, unscrewing her pen cap and elegantly signing her signature.

Oliver St. Martine was highly regarded for his accomplishments as a successful restaurateur and chef. He made a name for himself in the culinary world by becoming the youngest Master chef. He owned a three Michelin star restaurant only minutes from his Hamptons home. Now, at the pinnacle of his career, he was coveted by aspiring young men and women who sought his mentorship. At age twenty, he wed his childhood friend and muse, Ophelia Kang, a bright-eyed girl from New Zealand. She became his support and partner in all aspects of his career. However, reaching the top required some sacrifices.

Oliver truly believed that he had done everything right for Ophelia. He had worked hard to provide her with everything she wanted. He bought her dream house in the Hamptons, complete with a garden tucked away from the hustle and bustle of the city. Ophelia no longer had to work as a server and could devote her time to her hobbies. Despite all this, Oliver couldn't figure out what had caused this unfortunate event in their lives.

"I loved this house," Ophelia murmured, running her slender fingers over the top of the table. She still remembered buying the ridiculous chunk of wood with Oliver, celebrating his first Michelin star awarded to his flagship restaurant, Ophelia, named after his wife, who had turned thirty on the same day. She believed in him and his stardom.

"Fifteen years. December 1st would have been 15 years since we got married," Ophelia looked around the room, taking in the high-end furniture and antiquities that filled the open space. Since moving in, she had spent daily decorating and arranging the house to make it feel like their home. The walls were adorned with portraits and photographs that she had taken herself, a hobby Oliver had dismissed as silly. But it wasn't foolish when he had her picture all his dishes for his websites and cookbooks. Ophelia couldn't remember if he had ever sat down on the couch with her. How many nights did he devote to Ophelia, the restaurant, rather than the wife? Estelle was the perfect façade for their marriage, desirable on the outside but cold and lonely on the inside.

Ophelia and Oliver had little when they lived in the dingy apartment above the restaurant they worked at in Greenwich Village. They had to work doubles to make ends meet and often worked on major holidays, birthdays, and anniversaries. The owners took pity on the newlyweds who had travelled from Staten Island and offered them a vacant space to rent cheaply. On Sundays, when the restaurant was closed, Oliver would join Ophelia for mass. Afterwards, they would go to the farmers' market to buy the cheapest vegetables, making them mouth-watering creations. Despite their difficulties, they found joy in simple pleasures and each other's company.

Ophelia wanted to return to university, but he admitted he couldn't afford it if she stopped working. When they finally became financially stable, he wanted to start a family and have her stay home and be taken care of. When she stopped working at twenty-five to prepare to start a family, Oliver worked twice as hard. Leaving her alone, hormonal, and stressed. That was when the first miscarriage happened. Oliver arrived at the hospital at 3 a.m. when the restaurant closed. Ophelia forgave him. There would be two more before her thirtieth birthday and the news from the doctors that she was unable to carry a child in her womb.

Oliver took the news as facts and consoled her the best he could. He suggested adoption or surrogacy. Not once did he make it in time for those appointments. Oliver did what he did best: he worked more, helping underprivileged teenagers enter the culinary industry. Mentoring his "children", as he called them. Oliver's needs and wants were always put first. Ophelia believed they would always be partners. But in fifteen years, she never felt so lonely.

"Mr. Dresden, thank you for everything,"

"Please call me Richard. I've known you long enough. And Ophelia, are you sure this is what you want? You do realise you requested an uncontested divorce with zero alimony, no rights to the house, Ophelia the restaurant, etc, " he paused, "Ophelia, you have your parents' trust, of course, with less than $20,000. You know that'll go fast," Richard couldn't believe the contract when Ophelia brought it to him a year ago. She was taking nothing with her in this divorce. No property, money, or even partial restaurant ownership in her namesake. He peered down at his left. A single carry-on suitcase he knew filled with keepsakes from her childhood. Her clothing was packed away in bags already in her car.

"I know. I did buy a car outright," Ophelia laughed sadly but smiled warmly at Oliver, whose eyes started to water, "We used most of it to open Ophelia,"

Richard sighed disappointedly and patted the young woman's hand as he rose from the table to collect the papers. The two walked arm in arm to the front door and embraced in a familial manner.

"I will call you once it is all finalised," Richard said as he left, looking at the broken man at the massive table. Richard Dresden would go home that night to his wife of fifty years and thank her for how much she had sacrificed for his career. He would thank her for forcing him to eat dinner with her every night, reading his children bedtime stories, and ensuring every promise ever made was seen through. He needed to retire and spend his days with her, their children, grandchildren and maybe, if lucky, great-grandchildren because today was the last time he wanted to witness the broken marriage.

Ophelia said nothing as she made her way back to the table.

"Lia, please, I'm begging you, please don't do this," Oliver pleaded, getting up from his chair.

"Ollie," she used his long-forgotten nickname as he used hers, "You don't need me,"

"But I do; I did everything for you!" Oliver sobbed, walking towards her to embrace. Ophelia didn't pull away but held him tight. His large frame engulfed her smaller one. The scent of smoke clung to his clothes. He was probably smoking meat at the restaurant before coming home. "Why are you leaving? You said you were lonely. I'll spend more time at home. You know we can close Sundays and go to mass again and adopt a baby or a dog and..." he rambled in between sobs, soaking her cardigan with his tears. His legs gave out under him as he collapsed to his knees with her. Yet Ophelia stayed firm not to cry. Not right now. Not when she had chosen to leave.

Ophelia untangled herself from his arms, pulling away as he held on as best as he could before finally giving up when she cried out in pain in his tight embrace and sat on her knees and looked at the man before her, knowing full well he would be fine, given time, Oliver would throw himself back into the restaurant and forget about her as he had always done. The man in front of her was not the culinary powerhouse in the magazine, on TV, or the man on social media that made girls swoon and men envious. This Oliver didn't have burn scars, muscles, tattoos or stylishly tousled hair. It was as if she was having a flashback to her eighteenth birthday inside that dingy apartment on Staten Island. This Oliver was her Oliver, all skinny and pale, his hands still soft and bandaged with burn cream from his first year as a line cook. The twenty-year-old declared he couldn't bear to be without her. Who ran with her to the courthouse to meet the honourable Judge Dresden for a quick wedding. The two lonely souls with no parents or family. Who used his meagre paycheck to buy her favourite meal at the diner, chicken fried steak and over easy eggs with plenty of white gravy, and a strawberry rhubarb pie to cut instead of a wedding cake.

"Goodbye, Ollie," Ophelia held his face in her hands and kissed him one last time, which he returned and stood to her feet. She picked up her carry-on, walked out the doors to the awaiting SUV, packed her remaining personal items, and left Estelle, Ophelia, the restaurant, the Hamptons,
and Oliver St. Martine in the rearview mirror.