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The pages of Demian flick under her fingers. Es fiddles them idly. She’s read this book before, of course. But you haven’t, so you’ve both decided to indulge in it together. The two of you have said precious little during your visit today (‘today’, does such a thing even exist here?). The time has been spent with noses in pages, and while Es had intended to read, she finds herself listening to your breaths instead. She counts each inhale and exhale, populated by the occasional shifting of your posture.
The quiet in-out pulls her into a rhythm; a steady continuity that cements her lingering existence.
She counts and listens, eyes still on the book before her. In… out. In… out. Your breathing draws her in, soft and slow.
A thud makes her raise her head.
Oh. Your book has fallen to the floor, slipped from your grip just as your eyelids have slid closed. You’ve fallen asleep.
Es takes in the scene. Reclined on the couch you lie, head resting on the pillows. Your face is the picture of serenity, not a line on your brow. Es watches as your chest rises and falls evenly, all the more slow now that you have drifted away. Somehow, watching you like this stills her soul, yet hammers her heart at the same time. As much as she would like to, she can’t look away.
Part of her feels it a shame for you to spend your time together sleeping. But the thought of waking you feels almost heretical. And why should it matter? Does she not trust that you will come tomorrow?
Tomorrow… what does such a thing mean here? What should time have mattered in the eternity before your arrival? It could have been as long or as short as it liked. The time between your visits — it is limbo, it is purgatory. The nothing space to exist before what comes next.
Tomorrow — only comes when you next arrive.
Yes, you are her continuity. A personal timepiece that counts in breaths. What are seconds to the space between your inhales? The latter certainly meant much more to her.
Your breath deepens, momentarily. Es watches as you turn your head slightly but do not wake. How long will you rest? she wonders. There would be no worldly metric for it. The length of your nap would be defined as nothing more than just that. This is how she perceives time, Es realises. It exists because it has been given meaning — by you.
Your lungs a ticking clock, your page turns tolling the hour, each of your visits a day in her calendar.
Time. The tick-tock of a clock is not something her ears know, but somehow you have gifted her yet another piece of life.
Es picks up Demian, once again. In her ears, your breaths settle still. In… out. In… out.
The seconds fall into place. And Es catches them all.