Aksara Taste (For Flavors That Will Not Be Perfect)
CHAPTER Three

What color do you like best?

I used to say the sky was blue. But, my lecturer said the actual color of the sky was Lazuardi.

While in college, I had time to explore the knowledge of a fine art lecturer about the colors in the world. He asked me what color I knew. Without a doubt, I mentioned the twelve colors on the crayon line back in school.

“*Have you heard Khaki?”

I raised an eyebrow, looking at him while shaking slowly.

“Like our civil servant uniform.” said he was friendly.

“That's it's brown, Bu.” subtly refutes me.

“Not, Khaki is one family with cream.”

I blinked my eyes. The color of the cream in my mind all this time was like the color of sweet condensed milk. Is my retina starting to get in trouble? Or maybe I'm color blind?

“Heliotrope? Ever heard?”

I jerked. A helicopter?

“He-li-ot-rope.”laforafy his tribe per tribe.

I shook slowly again. This was the first time I heard the word heliotrope.

“Color purplish.” he said without asking.

I nodded lightly while casting a glance around the room. From the walls, ceilings, work cabinets, bookshelves, and sofas are all the same color.

“Mom likes sky blue color?” I was a little curious.

“Name Lazuardi.”

I smiled thinly. The sky has its own color.

“Kalo you like what color*?”

I love the color of the night sky. I think his name is indigo. But, when compared, the color of the sky

the night I like is a little different from indigo. Indigo, which means dark blue, does not resemble the color of the night sky that I often see.

For me, the color of the night sky is special. Differ. Impressed special. She's mute. No sound despite having many secrets. But that's what makes a lot of people like to look at it.

And I was one of those many people. Tired of waiting for the arrival of Mas Rudi, I chose to sweep my gaze over the night sky. To light the universe that unfolds its light on the wings of the universe. Counting millions of God's endless beauty.

“Alya!” I looked towards the car park. Ascertain who's been shouting my name from that distance.

And who else could do that but my brother?

“Why don't you use it, Mas?” I wear my seat belt.

Rudi looked at me with a face that did not accept. “You did, too. Pake event snarl all.”

“Emang where are you, anyway? Around Jakarta first?” just pissed.

“Mas met Panji.” said Mas Rudi defended himself.

I blinked my eyes, remembering that name.

The pennant? His best friend in Yogya?

“Sunardi Promise? The physiotherapist?” many doubt.

Rudi immediately exclaimed. “Yap!”

“Al, do you know who you meet?” ask with a smile.

I looked at Mas Rudi curiously. However, since he was a typical person who liked to joke around, so this time I only responded modestly.

“Who?” tanyaku.

“Arfian.”

While forcing my auditory nerves not to die, I tried to take a quiet breath. Sometimes lightheaded. Wetting a dry throat for no reason.

“Tau didn't, the first time I met him was what?”keep Mas Rudi. Still with her smile.

I clenched my own mouth. Trying to be as normal as possible even though all the rational thoughts in my brain were wiped out upon hearing his name.

“He asked which coffee shop you come to most often.”

“She's also just you already have a girlfriend is not.”

“What's he doing again, huh? Anyway a lot, deh. The topic is just one, you. But the language is long until the roots.”

“But, relax, Al. Not a story, really. I just said you were healthy. And now you're all right.”

“Oh, yes, from this year Arfian will not go anywhere again. He will stay in Indonesia.”

“Dia-“

Before Mas Rudi continued his words, I first raised the volume of the car radio. Ignoring his story of the endless Arfian figure.

Makes Mas Rudi take a long breath. “Iya, deh, sorry, sorry.”

****

Have you ever heard of the term pseudonym?

I was confused when I read a book called Life on the Mississippi. On the cover is Samuel Langhorne Clemens. While in my head I have attached the doctrine that Life on the Mississippi was written by Mark Twain, a famous American novelist.

As soon as I found out who Samuel Langhorne Clemens really was, I laughed in disbelief. At that time I thought I was the most backward man in the world. I feel like I failed as a student.

With the educational status that I had been holding for over twelve years, I just found out that she was him. The name Samuel Langhorne Clemens on the cover of the translation was Mark Twain whom I had always known.

I don't understand why Mark Twain chose to use his pen name in his great works. And why there are so many writers today who also follow in his footsteps.

In front of my eyes, a fifty-page hardcopy script only listed pseudonyms and a line of cell phone numbers. No home address, email address, or other identity could be reached.

The script is titled Range of Taste. Written by pseudonym initialed Cinnamon.

While putting on the glasses, I fixed my sitting position and gathered concentration. Putting aside all problems outside of work and sharpening my reasoning to deepen the content of his writing.

“For my dearly loved brother and the beautiful woman of God who has calmed down there.”

I started reading. Slowly meet the figure of a young pianist named Ardyathama Harianja. The male figure is said to have problems with his sense of hearing. He has Otosclerosis. A disease in which the bones around the middle ear and inner ear grow excessively. As a result, the stapes bone cannot transmit sound to the ear mazes as it should. In short, he became sensorineural deaf.

Ardyathama Harianja's life as a pianist goes on, even though he can't hear all the melodies he's created. Sometimes the hearing aid she uses cannot translate every note of the clang of the piano she presses. Requires Ardy to adapt to feelings in order to be able to recognize the various sounds around him.

“Al!” I gasped as Rayhan placed his face in front of my desk.

“Why?” my question is to close the Cinnamon script.

“I want to go.” he whispered softly.

I looked at the wall clock in the right corner of the room, then let out a long sigh. “Still another hour.” my word reminds.

“Please, Al, please. This time it was. Kalo Mas Zifran nyariin script whose title is Opini Hati, say only you do not know.”

I take off my glasses. A little bit disturbed by his. “That's it, it's been from last month, Ray. Time is not finished either. Where are you going?” manya curious.

“Live the last chapter, Al. I have to go now. My friend again in the hospital and I have not had time to look from yesterday.” he said by putting on a pleading face, making me not feel good. But, I also do not dare to interfere in matters like this.

“Al, really please. I really have to go.” Rayhan begged for mercy. It made me look at him with pity.

“Al?”

“Al?”

“Al?”

“Iya, deh.” I replied half-heartedly. It was a bit hard to let Rayhan go. But, if it's not confirmed, I won't have time to continue the work. So, I forced Rayhan to leave, even though my permission was not an official permit.

Once I wanted to reopen the Cinnamon script, the sound of mobile phone vibrations near the pile of manuscripts made me turn my face.

I saw the digits of the number without a name. I took the call for a moment before I finally picked it up.

“Hallo?” short sapaku.

“I'm in the coffee shop across from your office. Can we meet?”

For the few seconds that went by in vain, I just mute without making a sound. My lips are too thick to say something. There's no answer I can give you. Until I let the buzzing sound of the cell phone fill the silence we created.

“Alya?” the sap is warm, making my brain go round and round. I heard his voice hunting, making my breath restrained at the end of my throat.

“Alya?” he repeated the same word a second time. Forcing me to bite my lips, holding back a sound. I'm trying to make peace with the reality I'm facing now. The fact that separation makes the longing range so deep.

Although I was worried that Mas Zifran would be furious when I saw that there was not a single copyeditor in the room, I continued to go to Arfian.

However, this miss must be resolved immediately.