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

What season do you like best?

When I was a kid, I told my mom I love the snow. I have never felt what snow is like. After going to school and studying, I just found out that winter is fake. There is no winter in this world.

Living in Indonesia has made me accustomed to two seasons. Live with two alternating annual cycles, namely drought and rain.

Someone once asked me what season I like. Instead of answering winter like I said before, I told him I love the dry season.

Even though the dry season is hot, making many people so hot and not at home, I still like drought. I love the warm sun in the morning every day. I love its clear daytime sky and its moving clouds without having to be touched. Love the sky when the birds are free to fly and small children can play kites. I love the night sky, which has hundreds of millions of stars and the moon is so bright. The sky in the dry season is never bleak. Never was grim.

But that doesn't mean I hate the rainy season. I just don't like the prolonged cold. Especially in my house there is no heating. So, every rainy season comes I can only laze around. Wrapping my body in a thick blanket and quietly meditating in the room.

It's just the beginning of the rainy season. It was only the first day when Jakarta got a little wet. But I complained no. A strong wind blew a different aura of life at me. Although some people feel comfortable with the rainy season, in fact they do not feel what I now feel.

Di-ngi-nan.

“Argh!” my grumbling while moving both legs; trying not to numb them.

Busy withstanding the cold, the vibration of the mobile phone in the backpack made me realize.

“Hallo, Mom? Where are you?” I said annoyed as I raised Mas Rudi's call.

I heard the sound of Mas Rudi rumbling, combined with the sound of rain. “This bemo ngambek. You just wait a minute, said Mas Surya ten more minutes finished.”

“Iya, yes.” sahutku brief.

Some employees are busy crossing, some are waiting for an invitation. Some of those who survived, gradually left me alone.

Tired of standing, I finally chose to sit on the entrance stairs. I straightened my legs, just gave him space to not really die. I let the rain shower on the naked. Understandably, only idle sandals at home.

The cold makes me sick. My teeth are grinding and my lips are crabbing.

My eyes closed trying to string up light suggestions. “It's not cold. Don't overdo it!”

I repeated that sentence dozens of times. Until the rumble of the car engine propagated in the air, vibrating my auditory nerves that very second.

“Bemo!” pekikku in my heart.

As soon as I opened my eyes, I saw a curtain of rain welcoming the arrival of Arfian running towards me. Sometimes he tiptoed, jumped over puddles, hit some puddles of water. Sparks from the rain also litter his pants and flip-flops. He was wearing a plain blue night shirt. Both of his hands were busy holding the paper cup drink. From a distance, I saw that his black hair was left wet, while he walked up to me laughing lightly.

The young man arrived in front of me with a faint breath. He was standing right in front of my bare feet. His tall body dispelled the rain, covering my view from the crowd of the road.

“Makanya if the work is wearing shoes.” said Arfian smiled mockingly. The ballamata caught my toes starting to pale. He pushed my feet that were almost frozen. Strain it intentionally.

I looked at him unhappy. “Kayak you again make shoes aja.”

“I, do not work.” he stared back at me with a triumphant face.

“Nih.” he said while thrusting a paper cup in front of my face.

Arfian pulled both corners of his lips, forming a smile that I still love very much.

“Yakin, don't you want to? Ristretto, you know. Still warm anyway.”

Hearing that, I immediately smiled broadly.

Through the straw that Arfian had previously given me, I pulled the Ristretto slowly. Anticipating the heat that would likely set my tongue on fire.

Just one gulp, I almost spit out the drink. But my throat swallowed it. My eyes blinked and my voice shrieked for a moment.

“Fian!” I snorted in annoyance.

The bitter taste of Espresso Macchiato left its traces on the papillae of my tongue.

Arfian's face was shrouded in happiness. He looked at me without any regrets. The sound of rain could not even hide his broken laughter in the air.

As soon as the bemo arrived, Arfian told me to go home immediately. Before my steps completely separated the two of us, I looked back at the young man through his back. I saw dots of water falling from the blue night shirt he was wearing. Apparently Arfian was standing in front of me to hold back the rain.

And I realized, that's a habit he's always been doing. Nothing has changed from the Arfian. He is still the man he used to be. Just with his attitude like that.

***

When did you first fall in love?

I continued with the Cinnamon script after taking a warm sip of Ristretto given by Mas Zifran. He bribed me to finish the manuscript immediately. Because this month he's gonna give me extra work outside of work hours.

“Time talks about everything we never expected. Who would have thought that it turned out that I could also fall in love.”

I got carried away. Drifting by the barrage of words Cinnamon writes to describe how an Ardy could fall in love. For the first time, a violinist named Selma.

Selma Sayzaira's. Heteregon women; Indonesia-Lebanon. Her body was slim, tended to be thin, her skin was light yellow, her face was pale, and her pretty eyes were brown. Her hair was black, not too jetty, freely breaking down on her forehead and shoulders.

They met at the hospital. Equally undergoing osteochloric therapy, only different shifts in line only. Selma first, then Ardy after.

Similar to Ardy who uses a hearing aid and must undergo treatment, Selma also routinely therapy every three days. But the intensity of Selma therapy is getting bigger when Otosclerosis is balanced with the symptoms of pseudovertigo.

Cinnamon made their meeting soundless. It is only through a light smile and simple eye contact. Believing that Otosclerosis sufferers can not chat, Ardy chose to silence. He knew, his limitations were really already at the top of the threshold. The hearing aid that Ardy has is not able to fully translate every incoming sound wave. Always make mistakes. Especially when the words have similarities. Such as opaque, gloomy. Empty, without. Silence, sound. Trace, location. Gorge, cheating.

Even in Ardy's world, in his sense of hearing all this time, Selma's name is Salma. He permeated the name when the nurse asked Selma to speak. Although they can't catch what they're talking about, Ardy believes the woman he's always seen at the therapy center is named Salma. Salma Sayira's.

“We don't need clarity on who the name of the person we like is. There are many people in this world with the same name. We don't need his name. We need him. And for the first time I fell in love with a woman like Salma. Even though I told her a thousand times that I love her, I don't think she'll know either. But I hope he understands. Because I believe, there are many senses in him that can still function, especially the eyes and also the heart.”

I closed the Cinnamon script slowly. My mind floated, remembering when I first fell in love. Remembering who I was in love with.