It was the first time that I saw him. But it feels like we have been sharing the best form of friendship for the longest time that I could remember. I am feeling connected to him. As he breaks the sweetened circle in his two hands, the sky continues to be gloomy. Saving the people from the scorching heat of the sun, the clouds roam like the kings of the high avenues. The old man does not mind the grandeur of the street outside devoid of cars. His eyes are reaching nowhere. His breathing is breaching the glass wall of the café. But his hands are still busy cutting through the smooth dough.
And as I start to stare blankly at the stained wall in front of me, I know, his stability shifted to me. I sipped the striped synthetic spout somewhat submerged and standing at the middle of the cup. I longed for the bitter liquid. I waited for it to penetrate my mind and inject me with some memories. And as the brownish fluid go down inside my body, her smiles and blank stares enter my sanity.
I was sitting at the make-shift stair at our living room, which is always transformed to a sleeping quarter the moment the spiders in her garden start to spin out their homes, when her mobile phone screamed. I reached for it and answered the call. The caller asked for her, so I gave the phone to her. I transferred my eyes to the flashing television, but I retained my ears to her and the caller. I heard her uttering “Okay.” I heard her telling a short story. I heard her silent sobs. And when she realized that she could no longer carry the burden of wiping the salty liquid flowing down, she quickly gave the phone back to me. But I did not look at her eyes.
I never paid attention to what her body was telling me. I never saw the registration done by weight loss. I never noticed the bulging arteries and veins under the skin on her hands and fingers. I never saw the shaking of her legs. And I never saw the dull colour of her smiles. She tried her best to make me happy. She tried to be the best for me. But my heart has become so cold and hard without any trace of happy emotions, in other words, as good as dead.
Seventeen days from now, it will be her first year physically tucked inside the concrete walls of absence. It will be the mark that three hundred and fifty-nine days ago, I started missing her stories, complete with facial expressions, hand gestures and body animations.
I never said “I love you” to her. But she knows that I will always do.
DEXTERIFICATION 
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