Two Skies
A short story of two different people with two very different lives and very different colour of skies.
April 12, 2024, Friday, 7:43 p.m.
The girl in the passenger seat:
It’s Friday night, and I have finally completed my task for the week. I logged off. My husband said he’s picking me up, but as usual, we’re in a passive fight. I think you might call it the Cold War. It has become a routine. He says it makes our love stronger, but I have a different opinion. It usually ends with me being mentally drained. The fight only ends when I finally accept that he’s not gonna understand me, or it will just stretch for another 2 weeks if I don’t give up. My husband doesn’t like losing. I think that’s why he’s one of the best people at his consulting firm. However, sometimes he’s sweet, like he’s coming to pick me up from the office today. I sat in the car and threw my half-empty coffee in the trash. He has clearly stated he hates any beverage in the car. The day was usual until I met those pair of eyes on this car journey.
No, don’t you think of any romance. But something about the Joker guy at the busy crossway. He was smiling widely, showing all his yellowish teeth and face whitewashed with layers of white powder. His lips had a cheap red lipstick smudged, making an outline of it on his outer lips. He was middle aged man, maybe in his forties, slightly plumped, only slightly. Everything about him screams joy, but somehow his eyes told otherwise. They were moist. Like me. On the way home, our constant cold war had turned to aggresive fight, leaving me with buckets of tears. I stopped talking to my husband and distracted myself by looking at the window, only to find him looking at me with the same intrigue as I was watching him.
The signal was green, and the car moved past, and his face started to look smaller and smaller, and the rear mirror, until there was no trace of him. I do not know him. I could not do anything for him.
He might not even be sad. I might have created him in my head to know that someone is sad like me.
Or he may be really sad, with much more sadness than I ever knew. He might have kids who are waiting for him to get them something to eat.
Or he might have a wife who died in the circus show.
Or he might have none and is suffering from the utter loneliness of this wretched world.
Or he might have wondered if I could be his potential audience.
Or he just never thought of me, and I made all this in my head ad he never even looked at my side or in my car, or maybe he could see me from outside the car.
I don’t know. I might never know.
April 12, 2024, Friday, 7:44 p.m.
The Joker:
I had another show. I think it was my 4th show of the day and probably the last. My 12-hour shift is over. Another day of being yelled at by my a**hole of a boss. I don’t prefer calling him boss anyway. Even if he’s the one who pays, he’s doing it because I’m one of the best jokers in this area. And I don’t think I take more than I deserve. Less than it? Totally.
My wife was tired of my comical shows that paid too little and were even less respectful. She left 8 years ago to live with her brother, who was still very sister-loving to let her stay in his home, in the village. And spoiling her to the extent of helping her in her second marriage with a society guard. I heard they earn well and even get some salutes on good days. I think being a guard is not that hard, only if I were more physically strong, which somehow again might not be my fault for growing up in a very food-scarce house.
Even after all this, I still kinda love dressing as Joker, to make children happy, to show a mirror to some rich snobs. Yes, it is fun though. Sometimes, the white powder causes me rashes and itches, and the years of lipsticks have turned my red lips to dark purple, like a chain smoker. But something different happened today. Something very different, after 8 years. Nothing much happened after my wife left me. I saw her.
No, don’t you dare think of any romance. She was much younger than me, richer too. But something that made her like me. Something that screams without a word that even though we are so different, we are the same, sad, lonely human.
She might be in a car, in an air conditioner, and I, on the road, covered with sweat and white powder. Her eyes were all wet with tears as she looked at me expressionless. She had long hair tied in a bun and long cat eye liner that was smudged with tears. She wore an expensive white shirt. Though it was a common scene for me to see so many women in cars or rich men in ties. But her tears intrigued me.
I looked at the guy beside her, who was driving, who might be her lover or husband.
Was he like me, incompetent at keeping his wife happy even after having so much more money and even higher status?
Or is it her own misery, her own grief that has exploded today into salt water, ruining her rosy blush?
Maybe she is as lonely as me, even with people, or maybe she also had a long working day like me.
Maybe she didn’t want to cook dinner.
Maybe it was a usual everyday fight.
Maybe. Maybe not. We do not get the privilege to think and brood about things or people for long because my boss was calling for me again.
The signal was green, and her car rushed and vanished in less than a minute. I almost even forgot her face, except for her tear-stained eyes. If I had a daughter, maybe she’d cry like this when I couldn’t get her dinner for the third day in a row. I don’t know.
I might never know.
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