167 Words

by Tan Hui Ling, Isabel

Frank was having a bad day. First, his boss had called him in because of Mel’s blunder (119 words), then Mel had insisted on trying to help him as a form of apology which had only served to hinder his work until he had snapped at her (7 words), and Mel was the type of person you had to apologise to several times before she calmed down and stopped hiccupping (23 words). To top it off, he had tried to be conservative by using a coupon to purchase his dinner, but the cashier messed up his order, and not wanting to hold up the line, had no time to scribble a correction (14 words).

On the bus back home, Frank ran the numbers in his head: 163. Normally, he’d conserve more. As he jostled his way through the bus to the door, he let an ‘excuse me’ escape. He nearly cursed but managed to catch himself. When he met a neighbour in the elevator, he simply nodded in greeting, hoping he would understand and not think him rude, but inwardly conceding that he was, and concerned that he was becoming more so.

Days like these, Frank questioned what had come to be known as the 167 Rule. Words, like time, had become a currency of sorts; lavished on certain people, begrudged to others, yet still inadvertently squandered. Perhaps in the next generation the tongue would learn taciturnity, but for now, people readopted the classroom custom of copious note passing, along with texting in the same room and playing charades.

Frank unlocked his front door, changed out of his work clothes and sat down at the table to eat. After that he fired up his computer and adjusted the webcam, wiping the lens and angling it precisely to where he sat. It was still early, but it gave him comfort going about his evening routine, and so he decided to indulge in another ritual.

He wandered to the balcony. There he leaned against the railing and closed his eyes. This was one of the good things about the 167 Rule. Prior to its introduction, the streets below had still been bustling with noise and activity at this hour, whereas now, barely after nine, the city was already quieting down as people ran out of words and returned to their homes.

Speaking of running out of words, Frank recalculated yet again: two left—that was good for two-thirds of an I love you.

I could drop the ‘I’, Frank reasoned, albeit making it more apropos as a farewell than a greeting, but Frank suspected the 167 Rule was deteriorating grammar faster than instant messaging.

But at least mental arithmetic is improving marginally.

Frank heard a clicking sound to his left and opened his eyes. There was a woman on the next balcony over. She had lit a cigarette, slipped it between her lips and took a long drag. On the exhale, she turned and looked at him, smoke softening her features in a wispy veil.

Apprehension straightened his spine. In all the times he had spent on the balcony Frank had never seen this woman before. He raised his hand in a barely passing semblance of a wave.

The woman smiled slightly and gave a single clear wave in return. Several moments passed as the space between them seemed to contract even as it grew pregnant with unbroken silence. Frank couldn’t help but look away at the streets momentarily, and when he turned back, the woman was still staring. He gestured to the view beyond—Some night, huh?

The woman finally turned away, nodding. Her gaze made one sweep before settling back on him. She proffered a pack of cigarettes in his direction, eyes wide in question, and Frank realised his unease came from how she had not blinked once the whole time.

Does she plan to toss it over? Their balconies were two windows apart. He held his palm up—No, thank you. She gave a small shrug and took another drag.

Frank looked at her then—really looked at her. At how her eyes took in everything, absorbing the whole world, and as she gazed back at him, how they seemed to pour a whole world back out. She did not flinch away from the eye contact the way most people merely glanced and let their gaze slip over, never looking in. It was an invitation, and Frank felt both strangely intrusive as he did vulnerable, for by looking through her doors, so was he holding his own wide open.

Are you trying to tell me something? Frank pointed at her then at his mouth, trying to pantomime say and what? She seemed to laugh, her shoulders shaking, but either was too far away or too soft to hear. She then made some signs and movements with her hands in a sure, fluid manner that not only he couldn’t understand, but made his gesticulating seem wild and unwieldy.

Frank realised then she hadn’t used up all her words as he had supposed.

He held up his hands but they twisted about in awkward poses, trying to form words he didn’t yet know or how to. The woman gave another silent laugh and signed something he could not understand any more than the first time. Frank shook his head and shrugged his shoulders helplessly. After a moment he pointed at her cigarette, held two fingers to his lips and gave a puff.

She tossed the pack over, followed by the lighter, the first of which he had to lean over the railing to catch. Frank drew a stick, lit it and inhaled deeply, feeling the thick smoke flow through his windpipe and fill his lungs, expanding them with the pleasure of a morning stretch, and savouring the cooling tickle of menthol. Exhaling, he tasted the tobacco and felt the creep of lightheadedness. He tossed her items back but the woman fumbled on the lighter and they watched as it tumbled below them. They slowly looked up, eyes locked, then burst out laughing.

After that they stood in companionable silence, breathing smoke and watching the other, the streets, the world, with eyes wide and unblinking, until the phone rang.

Frank pointed indoors with one hand and made a phone with the other by his ear. He then waved goodbye, and she waved back in kind. Frank started towards inside but paused halfway through the doorway. He turned back.

‘I’m Frank,’ he said, loud enough to cross the distance.

The woman’s eyes smiled as she signed something back.

With a nod of acknowledgement, if not understanding, Frank took his leave.

The phone had stopped ringing. Frank went straight to the computer, and with a few mouse clicks, a female face filled the screen.

‘You’re late,’ said Cecilia, a teasing smile playing on her lips. Frank gave an apologetic smile. Cecilia’s face fell, accusation clear in her eyes—You didn’t save your words for me. Frank squirmed under the pixelated gaze, wanting but unable to explain himself—his boss, Mel, the cashier, and… Cecelia mightn’t understand about the neighbour woman. Still, he felt no compunction about having spent his last two words.

Frank glanced at the near-spent cigarette in his hand. He took one last drag before putting it out. Then looking directly at the webcam, he pointed at himself, followed by forming a heart with both hands, and finally pointed at the lens.

Cecilia repeated the hand signs back, ending with a laugh. The sound was slightly muted by the speakers, yet her eyes were bright.