Silent conversation

I sit in an armchair in my sister’s living-room.
My sister taps at her laptop.
Upstairs her daughter sleeps, until the time to wake and feed her comes.
My sister gets up.
I turn my head to watch her go, when I return, a woman sits in the armchair opposite me.
This is how our conversation transpires.

– You came. This is me.
— I did. The woman.
– Such a distance.
— I was with you in the car.
I remember the car, looking the rear-view mirror, seeing her in the back.
Elbow on the armrest, hand at her chin, facing the window and watching the traffic.
– I didn’t know you travelled in cars.
— I do.
Pause
— Sometimes.
I look away.
– Do I drag you along everywhere now.
But I do not end with an upward inflection.
— It was my choice to come.
– My choice?
— Not the same thing.
I inhale.
She reaches up to draw back a tendril of dark hair that had spilled across her face.
– You don’t have to be here.
— Thank you. All the same.
My sister returns with her daughter in her arms. The baby makes eye contact with me and instantly I smile.
She smiles back.
My sister settles down to feed.
The woman turns her head to watch.
— She’s beautiful.
– Yes.
— You must be proud.
– I didn’t have much to do with it, but yes, I’m proud.
The woman makes shapes with her mouth.
I wonder if in some cerebral sense that somehow only infants have, that my sister’s daughter is aware of the woman’s presence.
– I can go, I have my notebook with me, or I can use the laptop if you wish.
The woman turns to me.
— You don’t have to write now.
– Oh?
— The right time will come.
Pause
– Will you tell me?
Pause
– When the right time comes?
— Always.
I imagine her approaching me from the side, gently taking my wrist and guiding my hand to the pen or keyboard.
It is the only time we touch.
– If you want to use the laptop or the computer at home, you’ll have to find one of them.
— If I have to.
– I can try and find them.
— You don’t have to do that.
Exhale
We watch the baby feed.
– I wonder why I eat so much.
— The medication.
– Not just that. Something about savouring, and something about fear of death.
— Oh? I didn’t think you feared death.
– Only in the culinary sense, I fear I will run out of time in which to consume wonderful food.
She moves her head back and laughs, a smooth, full-bodied sound.
— Oh Jodi.
– What?
— You always make me smile.
She looks at me, returning her face to its neutral pose.
— One day I will do the same for you.
I return her stare.
– I sincerely hope so.