Set the World to Mute

Ben is a smoker.

As a nurse, I should hate that, but I don’t. I love to watch him stare off into the distance with smoke welling elegantly out of his nose and mouth, a burning cigarette between his fingers, it’s beautiful. It’s picturesque.

When I was younger, I drew a lot. Mostly my friends and my family, but sometimes I would sit down in a park or a marked, and I would ask the people passing if I could draw them. Most said no, but some said yes.

Those were the best ones, those made in the park and in markets, when I was able to look at the person I was drawing without the things I knew about them disturbing me. When I was able to look at someone with fresh eyes. When I had no fear about how they would react, or what they would say, or how they would feel.

Once, a woman who had been remarkably intense as I drew her burst into tears and hugged me when I showed her what I’d drawn. The woman had a deep scar across her cheek, running from her eye to her mouth, dividing her upper lip. “I’m so beautiful,” she said, looking at herself, “thank you.”

I let her keep that picture, it made her so happy. It made me so happy.

I don’t draw anymore, haven’t the time. Life is a busy thing. Should I ever draw again though, I would draw Ben, if he would let me. Ben knows how to sit still.

It’s Friday, today, and it’s my second week in the apartment. The radio is on, and I’m clearing up after Sophie who fell asleep in front of her old home, clutching the doll with the auburn hair. Her name was Sally, I know now. Sophie told me she wished she had red hair like her mother, who was the most beautiful woman who ever were.

“I sure she was very pretty,” I said, “But so are you.”

She smiled then, and touched one of the blonde ringlets around my shoulders. “Your hair is pretty too.”

“Thank you, Sophie," and she gave me one of those real, toothy smiles only children know how to make, "Would you like to braid it?”

Ben is in his workshop, making something beautiful. A chair for someone to sit it, or a shelf for someone to put their memories, or a bed for someone to make love in. I’ve been in there once, and he let me watch as he polished the top layer of a dresser made of dark wood, making its surface soft. Didn’t say anything.

It has been quiet in there for a while, and at ten o’clock I gently knock the door and enter. The large room is empty except from an army of unfinished furniture. I step inside and look around, running my hand over the smooth surface of the dresser from a few days past. On his desk I see the left overs from the dolls he made last week, and what looks like orders from customers filed neatly in organizers. I smile as I peak at them, see the properties wanted, his own little notes in his messy handwriting no one else than him can understand.

As a cold and fresh draft engulfs my body, I realize the window is open. I cross the room and look out, seeing a puff of smoke snake itself into the chilly spring air above the ladder next to the window. I swing my leg over the window pane and grab the ladder, trying not to look down.

Ben is sitting in the dark on the roof. The glow of his cigarette has almost reached the philter, it lights up his face in a soft, warm sheen as he looks at me. “Hey,” I say, sitting next to him. He nods, and for a moment I go silent, seeing the extravagant view of our city. “Beautiful,” I comment, my breath misting in the air.

He flicks the cigarette away and uses his thumb to slide another one out of the pack by his side, placing it between his lips. As his lighter makes a spark of light flash across his face I notice for the first time just how pretty he is.

This is almost unexplainable unless you’ve been in love yourself, my chest tightens and I have to suck in a full breath to settle the odd feeling spreading in my body, a mix between excitement and fear. I am suddenly aware of things like how I must look so tired and drawn, how my hair has fallen out of the childish braid Sophie made, how my mascara have left dark shadows underneath my eyes. Do you know that feeling?

He reaches out and offers me a cigarette, and I say, almost out of breath. “No thank you. I don’t smoke,” and blink slowly, “Nurse, remember?”

He nods again, he remembers. Then he turns away and takes a long breath of the cigarette, hollowing in his gaunt cheeks, and keeps the poison in his lungs for what seems like an eternity. As he exhales and it leaves his system and disappears into the night, I feel an odd blush reach my cheeks.

And just like that, I know I am in love.