SHE CAN’T REALLY DRAW. But In the middle of meetings, data gatherings and all the other energy heist in the office, she found herself doodling in a quaint little coffee shop in the metro which happened to serve the best pasta as well. She slipped in a little beer, for lunch, and while she’s waiting for the pesto to arrive, she kept replicating a memory she couldn’t erase from her mind: her sleeping under the covers of some foreign yet oddly familiar sheets, with the rays of the sun giving ample light for her to gaze at the sleeping form of Ender, letting her marvel at the beauty in front of her. It was a sight that she couldn’t seem to control herself into not imagining over and over. Traces of mascara on her lashes and on her cheeks. Her eyes lost into the transition of her body’s rest. The quick succession of her breathing. The soft curves of her nose. The sharpness of her upper lip’s heart-shaped arch. The way her lower lip quivers after some involuntary pouts.

Alexis stopped her pencil. It was really that image she was trying to keep perfecting, despite her best efforts. The paper has already lost its smoothness after re tracing some lines, only to erase them again. It’s those lips she wanted to come to life, to haunt her, to consume her. She realized she wanted to touch those lips badly she had to have them on paper.

A plateful of pasta materialized in front of her. “Artist?” The waitress who served the food asked as she took a glance at Alexis’ notebook. She wanted to cover it as an impulse, but realized that all she has drawn are bad lines altogether, really. She smiled.

“Hardly,” Alexis replied. “Just inspired.”

“Ah.” The waitress remarked knowingly. “Then that’s much better, isn’t it?”

“It is.” Alexis agreed, her smile growing wider.

“Lucky person.”

“Not as lucky as I am.”

The waitress grinned in agreement, then left Alexis to her lunch. She took another swig of beer before going for the pasta. She paused—the beer had a sudden distinct bitter taste, reminding her of something. Tequila? The same taste she remembered savoring after her lips parted with Ender’s that same night—except Ender’s lips had a strange sweet aftertaste that Alexis couldn’t fathom. Mixing it with Tequila made Ender her sweet suicide.

Alexis shook her head. It’s never going to stop, is it? She whispered to herself. Then she realized, maybe it’s not that bad at all.

Sometimes you wonder why nobody ever made doctors about moments. I mean, yeah, it can be pretty hard to define for now, but if you think about it, it makes sense. I mean, come on, it’s almost like pre-empting possible psychological damage. Half of the nut case issues out there are because of moments, really.

Nobody ever listed moments as a primary need. But when you consider how much we are made by moments, you would realize how much of a slave we really are to it: a defining song to intensify a feeling; a lingering look; a perfect Sunday morning in the room which lets you gaze at someone while sleeping and you’re both under a comforter; a hand held while driving; a laugh shared while thinking of a word. Then there are the lethal ones: a request to stay five minutes so you could be looked at and remembered how you are because you would be missed; starting to walk away but you stop because deep inside you’re trapped in the middle of your decision to either make another step or go and run back; making that decision and running back and making that final kiss of the day, week, possibly longer. And you walk more and linger and you know you can’t do anything else but look sadly as the person goes. And when it has finally sunk in that it’s gone, you still stay in your spot wondering whether you should ask for the person to come back or you go on and let things run its course. And you know you have to choose the latter.

See, every freaking day of our lives we are taught about the basics of living: money, food, shelter, clothes, more education, more money, more food, better shelter, better clothes. And it all revolves around it. But nobody ever bothered to have told me, goddamit, Alexis, one day your heart will be torn from you and it’s all because of you and your decision to linger on moments.

It’s cruel. But that’s the essence of everything, isn’t it? The world would have to be cruel for you to do something, damn it, and make it less cruel for you. And I wonder, when would be that time I would have the courage to step up and make it less cruel for that person, for me, and for us?