I have finally gotten down to writing the story with such title suggested by a particular person. An incoherent title demands an incoherent story. The fish will take care of that.
In Chinese mythology there is the story of Chang'e. Legend has it that she was forced to take an elixir of immortality and rose to to the heavens, leaving behind her husband. But the bond between man and wife was so strong that she rose only to the moon and remained there ever since. Forever between the two lovers was a chasm even the Gods could not overcome. The story of two star-crossed lovers is written into the moon.
He sat by the table, left elbow resting on the tabletop with his head perched on his fist. The white light of the laptop bathed the room in a sterile glow. The clock read 5.23am. She was late. He got up from his chair and walked over to his immaculately-made bed and peered out of the window above it. Officers were given singles and exempt from room inspections, but unlike the rest, he still retained the impeccable standards of personal conduct cultivated in cadet school. It was a full moon today and he could see all the way to the other end of the parade square where the flag pole was. Apparently, whichever side of the Earth you are on, it is the same side of the same moon which you see. That was what she had told him the night before she left for college in the States. "So you see, we won't be so far away from each other after all," she had said. "Think of us when you see the moon."
The tranquillity was broken by the six repeating notes of his Skype ringtone. He remembered the days when simply hearing that melody would raise his heart rate and bring a smile to his face. But he felt none of that now. Maybe that's how love evolves. Maybe they've moved on beyond the dopamine-filled phase of affection into what adults call "stable" love. He walked back to his table and glanced at the clock before picking up. 5.26am.
"Hey sweetie."
"Hey. Sorry I'm late. Class dragged." It was half past five in the evening there in Philadelphia.
"No. It's okay. Though you could text next time."
"Yeah, I would have. But the professor was going through things for the upcoming exam he wanted us to note down. I'll try to text next time."
"What class was that?"
"History 1501. It's about the ancient Roman empire."
"Isn't this the same as the one you took few months back? The one about Ancient Rome too?"
"That was History 1500. About the Roman Republic. One comes after the other."
"Oh. Sorry. So... Tell me about it." He looked into webcam and smiled. In Skype, that's how you give the illusion of making eye contact.
"Well... We started the course with the establishment of the empire after the death of Caesar. There was the war between the Second Triumvirate and the Pompeian faction, which the Triumvirate won, only to start another civil war among itself which culminated in the Battle of Actium. Yep, that's what we've learned so far. It's all been very interesting."
"Yeah, it does sound very interesting. Glad you enjoy it." He didn't catch a word of what she said.
"So, how's it been for you?"
"Just the usual. The other day Mark had an argument with S4. The logistics offi-"
"Remind me again, who is Mark?"
"Mark's the platoon commander of platoon 2. He was my buddy back in cadet school."
"Right. Carry on."
"Yeah, as I was saying Mark argued with S4 and it was pretty intense. CO had to step in and Mark was given a 14-day SOL, stoppage of leave. Means he can't step out of camp for 2 weeks."
"Oh, that's cruel."
"Yeah, it is." He didn't know what else to say.
He read somewhere that among couples in a healthy, stable relationships, it was remarkable how much time they spent not talking to each other, and how comfortable they were with silence, even over phone calls. The article concluded that such couples had reached a stage where they didn't have to talk much to understand each other.
"So what were they arguing over?" She broke the silence.
"S4 wanted Mark's platoon to set up the chairs for some parade that was happening that day. Mark felt his platoon was always being given the most work. Silly reason actually, to argue in front of the men over such things."
"Yeah, that does sound silly."
He looked at her face on his screen. It was her turn to stare into the webcam and smile. She had such thin eyebrows. He had never noticed that before. She looked weird, almost without any eyebrows.
"It's mid-autumn festival today, did you know? The moon's at its brightest tonight."
"Oh no, it's not celebrated here. So did you eat mooncakes? I miss them actually, now that you mention it."
"Nah, I spent it in camp. Well, I'm sure there's a Chinatown there that'd sell mooncakes."
"Yeah I'm sure there is, but I've been so busy with school I don't think I'll ever have the time."
"I would think so, you sound really busy. Anyway, I have to go now. My men will be gathered in the lecture theatre in 5 minutes. I'll have to conduct a briefing there. I love you."
"I love you too."
5.41am. He shut the laptop and lay on his bed with his hands behind his head. There was no morning training on Saturdays. Reveille was at 9am. The orange headlights of a passing jeep outside chased the black shadow of the window grille across the ceiling.
She had makeup on today. Her face was smoother and lips pinker. He'd never seen her wear makeup before. Hell, she didn't even wear it to prom, where it was almost a tradition for girls to put on too much of it. Why would she even wear makeup to class anyway. But he knew he shouldn't bother too much. They all eventually grow to use makeup.
But why had he never noticed her eyebrows before. She looked ugly. He shut his eyes and tried to get some sleep.
Across the horizon the soft glow of the moon was giving way to the radiant orange of the morning sun.
Cutting fish is an art. As an artist has many paintbrushes of different dimensions, a sashimi chef has many knives for purposes so specialized few outside the profession would appreciate. In his right hand is one of those knives. With his left palm, he presses down gently but firmly on the soft, pink flesh of the boneless salmon, careful not to dent the prized meat. With the precision of hand possessed by only master sashimi chefs - and top neurosurgeons - he guides the knife lengthwise through the salmon. Up, down, up, down, his knife goes as he saws through the delicate slab. He is a picture of intense concentration. If he could see himself, he would understand why people said he resembled his mum. This is her look at the mahjong table. He finally lets out his breath after the cold silver of the blade exits the cold pink of the salmon. As a new mum after labour, sapped of all her strength, catches her breath and draws on love for energy and lifts her head to partake in the sight of her baby for the first time; So with trembling hands he lifts the top half of the pink slab and lays it beside the bottom half. Perfect halves. Beautiful symmetry. He looks up, inhales deeply, and smiles the Smile of Accomplishment. His name tag glimmers in the bright orange light. It reads "Biscuit". Oh what the hell does the layman know about cutting fish.
