West of Eden
The sky was still dark when I rolled out of bed this morning at almost seven, feeling very cross at having an 8am job all the way in the West.
I was sorry - sorry to leave the cocoon of my bed and blankets and even more deeply sorry to leave Chip's warm, fuzzy, sleeping form. I pulled myself together under a hot shower and threw on some clothes before straggling out to hail a taxi down to the Chinese Gardens, on the opposite end of the island from where I live.
The ride amounted to over twenty dollars, a slight headache was setting in and even the driver glumly commiserated with me for having to prance into a ministerial event firing on all four cylinders at that ungodly hour. I passed by the beginnings of a wedding on the way in and wondered at how anyone could think to drag themselves to get hitched in the middle of nowhere on a Saturday morning.
Standing on the tarmac in the Japanese Gardens, waiting for ministers to arrive, I didn't realise that vicious little red ants had started crawling their way up my calves and only snapped to when one of them cavorted under my skirt, up my inner thigh and sank its mandibles into my flesh, just below the cojones.
It felt like someone had jabbed me with a red-hot needle and I involuntarily yelped and grabbed at my groin in front of the unfortunate Public Relations woman who simply shook her head and informed me that the exact same thing had happened to her not five minutes ago. I was about as persnickety as could be.
Then, rain threatened.
The sky swelled and pressed down on the earth, turning a deep purple striated with the merest hints of dove grey. Cool with tiny breaths of wind, the atmosphere seemed to heave and sigh with electricity and tiny pinpricks of water dappled the earth from the amethyst air. The bridal party laughed and squealed at the touch of rain, tripping gaily down the path to a sheltered pavilion in their wispy white dresses and rustling flowers. Undeterred, the bride continued to smile and pose on a rock, resplendent in her frothy gown.
Against the low, plum-coloured sky, the mint green weeping willows and misty casurinas looked like something out of a myth. A tiny red bridge arched over a glittering expanse of rippling silver-purple lake. In the distance, a single nine-storey pagoda was the only alabaster thing rising from the grassy ground.
In that fresh, cold, slightly biting wind, the world looked like an ancient Chinese watercolour painting, all shades of wine, emerald and forest that made my heart squeeze and choke. It was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
And suddenly, I wasn't sorry anymore.
I was sorry - sorry to leave the cocoon of my bed and blankets and even more deeply sorry to leave Chip's warm, fuzzy, sleeping form. I pulled myself together under a hot shower and threw on some clothes before straggling out to hail a taxi down to the Chinese Gardens, on the opposite end of the island from where I live.
The ride amounted to over twenty dollars, a slight headache was setting in and even the driver glumly commiserated with me for having to prance into a ministerial event firing on all four cylinders at that ungodly hour. I passed by the beginnings of a wedding on the way in and wondered at how anyone could think to drag themselves to get hitched in the middle of nowhere on a Saturday morning.
Standing on the tarmac in the Japanese Gardens, waiting for ministers to arrive, I didn't realise that vicious little red ants had started crawling their way up my calves and only snapped to when one of them cavorted under my skirt, up my inner thigh and sank its mandibles into my flesh, just below the cojones.
It felt like someone had jabbed me with a red-hot needle and I involuntarily yelped and grabbed at my groin in front of the unfortunate Public Relations woman who simply shook her head and informed me that the exact same thing had happened to her not five minutes ago. I was about as persnickety as could be.
Then, rain threatened.
The sky swelled and pressed down on the earth, turning a deep purple striated with the merest hints of dove grey. Cool with tiny breaths of wind, the atmosphere seemed to heave and sigh with electricity and tiny pinpricks of water dappled the earth from the amethyst air. The bridal party laughed and squealed at the touch of rain, tripping gaily down the path to a sheltered pavilion in their wispy white dresses and rustling flowers. Undeterred, the bride continued to smile and pose on a rock, resplendent in her frothy gown.
Against the low, plum-coloured sky, the mint green weeping willows and misty casurinas looked like something out of a myth. A tiny red bridge arched over a glittering expanse of rippling silver-purple lake. In the distance, a single nine-storey pagoda was the only alabaster thing rising from the grassy ground.
In that fresh, cold, slightly biting wind, the world looked like an ancient Chinese watercolour painting, all shades of wine, emerald and forest that made my heart squeeze and choke. It was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
And suddenly, I wasn't sorry anymore.
She said, she said at 1:10 pm
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