The Six Sided Gift
My hands wind around the dial, each new position indicating the passage of time. I am beginning to feel comfortable on the new wrist I now encircle. The wrist’s owner is a good man. He is charming, transiently insecure, periodically quirky, idiosyncratic at times, prone to a one-liner, and frequent gazer over his listener’s right shoulder as he recalls an anecdote. But he is a good man.
I was a gift from his partner, a wonderful woman. She is fundamentally sound, frequently conflicted, generally reliable, unparalleled in her wit, at times flawed, and, in the right setting, vulnerable enough to display her tender shortcomings. She is a good woman.
She is his first partner, and everything going well his last partner. To keep the spark alive, assuming one existed, he rolls a single die, and in a number of days determined by the number he rolls, he does something for her. It is his way of maintaining spontaneity and randomness, but its predictability comforts him. Two weeks ago, he rolled a four. Ten days ago, he gave her a poem he wrote about her favourite childhood book, a book about a ladybug who saves the other ladybugs from extinction with her courage, bravery, and ingenuity. He then rolled another four, and six days ago, he made an orange cake and freshly squeezed orange juice. She loves painting and is going through an orange phase, both the colour and the fruit. He then rolled a six, which brings us to today. Today’s surprise is a dinner.
The light whizzing of the fan above the stove in the kitchen is periodically interrupted by his boisterous clapping, accompanied by the rhythmic swaying of his hips and gentle shoulder rolls. His clapping follows a rhythm not reminiscent of a singular song but one that seems to emanate from his soul: quaver, quaver, eighth rest, crochet, crochet, eighth rest, quaver, quaver, eight rest, crochet, crochet, eighth, rest. He repeats this pattern to his heart’s content.
(It’s hard to read music in word form. To make it easy, count in eights by alternating between a number and the word ‘and,’ 1 and, 2 and, 3 and, 4 and. Clap on the 1 and the first and. Rest on 2, then clap on the second and. This clap is held for a full beat. Then clap again on the third and. Hold again for a full beat, then rest on the final and, return to the start with a clap on the 1. Clap, clap, rest, longer clap, longer clap, rest, then back to the beginning).
On the menu for tonight’s dinner is rice, chorizo stew, and chapati. He has chopped the onions and diced the garlic. The sausages have been sliced and seared. The first three entrants into the frying pan were the sausage, onions, and garlic. They were soon joined by tomatoes, black beans, chickpeas, chicken stock, and an assortment of spices, which have now begun to simmer. Now, he must progress to his next dish, the chapatis. The dough has been made; his remaining task is to roll it out. But before he does so, he must wash his hands.
Quaver, quaver, eighth rest, crochet, crochet, eighth rest, repeat, he claps.
Three other timekeeping devices are present in the kitchen. Only two are functioning: an analogue clock resting on a slanted stand on the kitchen bench adjacent to the microwave and a digital clock by the oven. Adjacent to the microwave is a rubbish bin, its lid preventing the spread of its noxious odour. He usually takes out the rubbish after a big cook. The digital clock was purchased as the clock on the stove is now out of time with the other clocks in the house, like a school pupil wearing casual clothes to a school assembly. She is not home. The only physical reminder of her in the kitchen is the hobby project she has left on the kitchen bench; they do not put pictures on the fridge; pictures belong in albums.
Quaver, quaver, eighth rest, crochet, crochet, eighth rest, repeat, he claps.
The joy from his clapping is overtaken by his immediate need to finish cooking dinner. He stirs the stew and then allows it to bubble; it needs time for the liquid to evaporate. He proceeds to wash his hands before making the chapatis. He takes three steps away from the stove toward the sink, the fan’s whizzing only slightly lessened by the distance. With his left hand, he pushes the soap pump, forming a pool of liquid the diameter of three tiny ants in the palm of his right hand. He rotates the mixer tap handle 30 degrees to the left and then pushes it up. The lukewarm water mixes with the pool of soap, and after 30 seconds of vigorous rubbing and tugging, he waves his hands over the sink to rid them of excess water. Thankfully, no water splashes on me. He then shuffles to his left and pulls two sheets of rectangular paper towels from the roll to dry his hands. He then lifts the lid on the rubbish bin and drops the damp paper towels into the rubbish.
Quaver, quaver, eighth rest, crochet, crochet, eighth rest, repeat, he claps.
Her project is rather odd. It is a generator or motor or something along those lines. He does not understand it but loves that she is so interested in it. He loves the smile that crawls across her face when she talks about it, the glee she experiences when thinking about it, and the focus she exhibits when building it. He is somewhat intimidated by her intelligence. He values her intellect but is fearful that she might leave him due to his relative lack of intellect. But she is still here. They share a pure type of love. One in which they are greater than the sum of their parts. One in which they are both comfortable dwelling in ambiguity. One in which they share each other’s joy, which heightens the good times, lessens the sadness of the bad times and creates meaning in the long periods in between.
If love is what he seeks, what he aims to avoid is not hate but indifference. Initially, he thought she was indifferent, but she was just strong. Strength can often seem like indifference, but indifference never seems like strength. The only way to differentiate between them is through shared vulnerability.
To visualise her project, imagine a wind turbine with a single long blade, a weight attached to one end, and an insulated iron bar at the other. Resting on the insulated iron bar is an electromagnet. The blade and the electromagnet spin around and are attached to a generator. Electricity is generated by the rotation of the blade to which the weight and iron bar are attached.
My gaze drifts away from him as he closes the rubbish bin. As I stare at her hobby project, the weight begins to fall from the 12 o’clock position in the anti-clockwise direction, resulting in the generator producing electricity. The electromagnet becomes magnetic. The weight then reaches the 6 o’clock position, and the electromagnet is in the 12 o’clock position, with the insulated iron bar trailing just behind it at the 12:01 mark. The electromagnet begins to drop at 9.8 m/s2, which also results in rotation within the generator, allowing it to continue producing electricity. The insulated iron bar is attracted to the electromagnet, but the electromagnet is not attracted to the iron bar. The weight returns to the 12 o’clock position, completing a revolution.
The stew continues to bubble. As he touched the lid, his hands are dirty. He steadily makes his way from the rubbish bin back to the sink. With his left hand, he pushes the soap pump, resulting in a pool of liquid the diameter of two tiny ants in the palm of his right hand. He rotates the mixer tap handle 30 degrees to the left and then pushes it up. The lukewarm water is mixed with the pool of soap, and after 30 seconds of vigorous rubbing and tugging, he waves his hands over the sink to rid his hands of excess water. Thankfully, no splashes land on his wristwatch; I am glad I’m near the microwave. He shuffles to his left, pulls two sheets of rectangular paper towels from the roll to dry his hands, and then throws the paper towards the rubbish bin after lifting the lid.
Quaver, quaver, eighth rest, crochet, crochet, eighth rest, repeat, he claps.
My gaze drifts away from him as he closes the rubbish bin. As I stare at her hobby project, the weight is falling. It is now passing the 10 o’clock position in the anti-clockwise direction, resulting in the generator producing electricity. The electromagnet becomes magnetic. The weight then reaches the 6 o’clock position, and the electromagnet is in the 12 o’clock position, with the insulated iron bar trailing just behind it at the 12:01 mark. The electromagnet begins to drop at 10.8 m/s2, which also causes rotation of the rotor in the generator, causing electricity to continue to be produced. The insulated iron bar is attracted to the electromagnet, but the electromagnet is not attracted to the iron bar. The weight returns to the 12 o’clock position, completing another revolution.
The stew is now thicker. As he touched the lid, his hands are dirty. He briskly makes his way from the rubbish bin back to the sink. He pushes the soap pump with his left hand, resulting in a pool of liquid the diameter of three small ants in the palm of his right hand. He rotates the mixer tap handle 30 degrees to the left and then pushes it up. The lukewarm water is mixed with the pool of soap, and after 30 seconds of vigorous rubbing and tugging, he waves his hands over the sink to rid his hands of excess water. Thankfully, no splashes land on his wristwatch; I am grateful I am situated next to the oven. He shuffles to his left, pulls two sheets of rectangular paper towels from the roll to dry his hands, and then throws the paper towards the rubbish bin after lifting its lid.
My gaze drifts away from him as he closes the rubbish bin towards her hobby project. As I stare at it, the weight is at the 8 o’clock position in the anti-clockwise direction. Its movement causes rotation, resulting in the generator producing electricity. The electromagnet becomes magnetic. The weight then reaches the 6 o’clock position, and the electromagnet is in the 12 o’clock position, with the insulated iron bar trailing just behind it at the 12:01 mark. The electromagnet begins to drop at 11.8 m/s2, which also results in rotation within the generator, allowing it to continue producing electricity. The insulated iron bar is attracted to the electromagnet, but the electromagnet is not attracted to the iron bar. The weight returns to the 12 o’clock position, completing another resolution.
Quaver, quaver, eighth rest, crochet, crochet, eighth rest, repeat, he claps.
Our hands will keep ticking, our digits will continue to flicker, we will continue to keep time, and we will continue watching. The cycles continue, the man and the machine caught in an infinite loop, a type of forever that he hopes mirrors their love in duration and intensity. A kind of love so deep, wide, gentle, steadfast, enduring, and fulfilling, it is almost unimaginable, its only metaphor, a fictional mechanism. A love in which the opportunity to give the most valuable gift of all, time, is created.
He has one die that he will roll after tonight’s dinner. At most, he will have six days to develop something new. At times, he finds the turnaround difficult. If only he had more time. If she gave him another die, he would have two. On average, he would have longer to plan further surprises, giving him more time. He would spend the extra time on her, making each surprise more meaningful and unique to her. If only she knew about the die.
Quaver, quaver, eighth rest, crochet, crochet, eighth rest, repeat, he claps.
THE END
Try clapping the rhythm to these songs:
YAWA - Fireboy DML
Sere - Spinall, Fireboy DML
Coffee (Don’t Read Signs) - Odeal
Colours - Kid AlpHa
King - Fireboy DML
Kolomental - Victony