Those Sad Eyes Tell A Story

Those sad eyes tell a lot. Even though we've never even spoken to each other, let alone talked like old friends. 

She always sat there, at the very corner table. Often times she leaned her head against the glass wall, letting her long, flowing hair touch the wall, as if representing herself to always keep an eye on the road outside. Always like that.

At first, I thought she was a new employee in one of the offices across the street. Yes, of course I guess so. Because that’s the first time I saw her in this cafe. How long have I been spending my days here? Three years, four years, or maybe five years? I myself almost forgot, how long I have dedicated my life to something called work, and of course, that’s the first time I’ve seen her here, at my favorite cafe.

She always sat at the same table, with the same menu: a cup of coffee, and a piece of cake—which she almost always didn’t touch. Her sad eyes were always focused on the street outside, as if she was counting how many cars passed by. Ah no. Of course she was waiting for someone.

Yes, maybe she was waiting for someone. Her lover? Husband. Friend. Business partner. Ah, I'm more sure she was waiting for her lover. Maybe they had made an appointment to meet at this café. Unfortunately, I have to throw that guess away. How long would someone want to wait for their lover to fulfill their date? One day, one week, one month, or like that woman who had been waiting here faithfully for three months. Every evening when the clock is at four to six. Ah, of course she is such a loyal lover.

However, over time I became sorry for her. Ah no. Perhaps also interested in her behavior. Oh, no-no. Maybe I like her eyes. A pair of sad eyes that are faithfully watching the road outside, sad eyes that suddenly tell so many stories. Those sad eyes stole my attention.

***

At first, I couldn’t understand the story from those sad eyes. Then, my eyes interpreted it very well. And I was swept away. I was touched that I always longed to hear the story from those sad eyes.

The first story I heard from those sad eyes was about the reason why that woman was sitting here, staring at the street, and choosing the time between four and six in the evening.

Apparently, my guess was slightly correct. She was waiting for someone. Unfortunately, when I asked those eyes: who is she waiting for? The eyes were silent and did not want to talk. Perhaps, it was too difficult for her to name the person she was waiting for.

When I didn’t insist on mentioning the person she was waiting for, those sad eyes were ready to talk again. She said she always came here to meet someone, someone who had stolen her attention. Someone who has carved something so deep in her heart. Ah, of course it’s love, I guess. Those sad eyes were silent; she was silent for a long time; maybe she was remembering or contemplating the words I had just said: could it be love that was etched there?

It could be. It could be love that is etched in the heart, said the sad eyes. I smiled a little hearing that. Well, who wants to wait days for someone not so important? Of course, only love can cause a woman like the owner of those sad eyes, to be willing to spend every evening just waiting for someone who is not sure when it will come. Love. That’s the only reason that can make people do that.

Of course, that someone was a handsome man. Oh, is he a man? Ah, those sad eyes suddenly reddened, like there were sparks that exploded and were so passionate in their retinas when I guessed that someone was a handsome man. It was the first time, yes, that was the first time, I saw those sad eyes sparkle: beautiful and very alive, sparking a passion that resides in my chest. Her cheeks flushed as well; her eyes nodded slightly. Ah, she confirmed my guess. I correctly guessed the person she was waiting for: a handsome man who had stolen her heart. Oh, it’s a romantic love story.

But, it wasn’t the man’s good look that attracted the sad eyes to him. I became speechless when those sad eyes revealed that. So, what is the cause? Is it because of someone’s scent? Yes, it can be too. Don’t women like the smell of men? A smell that tickled his nose and tickled his heart. Oh, apparently not either; the sad eyes shook their heads. If not his scent then what? Aha, let me guess again, of course, that person’s posture. Is he an athletic man? A broad chest that is so stocky; a lot of hair all over his body; a strong jaw that protrudes. Oh, women will indeed be infatuated with such a man, good body, handsome face, what else? Of course he is the perfect man.

Neither! Then, what is the cause? Those wistful eyes smiled shyly, ah, so cute when she blushed like that. Like a teenage girl who falls in love for the first time and the boy of her dreams sends her a letter.

Oh, you love his eyes. Yes I know. Eyes are beautiful thing. Are the man’s eyes beautiful? The sad eyes nodded; she described how beautiful the eyes of someone she was waiting for. His eyes are brown with very clean whites. Eyes that are so enchanting, eyes that are very good at telling all the hopes that exist, eyes that always make her impatient for tomorrow to meet, eyes that encourage her to come early, eyes that always teach her not to get tired, eyes that often soar her imagination. Those eyes, the sad eyes of the man she was waiting for. Ah, those sad eyes sparkled again when she mentioned the beauty of the eyes of the person she was waiting for. I can imagine someone’s eyes.

Are his eyes like your sad eyes? Such beautiful eyes with very immersive stories. Oh no. Really? Is it true that much more beautiful than your eyes that are already so dazzling? Ah, those sad eyes nodded confidently. I can’t imagine someone’s eyes if their eyes are much more beautiful than this woman’s sad eyes. How difficult it is to describe eyes that are far more beautiful than theirs, because to me those sad eyes are truly incredibly beautiful eyes, if there is anything more beautiful. Oh, which canvas can hold it? Which brush can scratch it? No wonder if she really loves someone he’s waiting for. No wonder.

Now, I understand why the woman with the sad eyes is willing to wait for days for that person. He was someone very special, someone who had etched something in her heart, stealing her attention. Someone who has such beautiful eyes, eyes that have locked the woman’s sad eyes. Maybe, if I were that woman, I would do the same thing, waiting and always waiting for someone with beautiful eyes and full of stories to come back and tell another story.

That’s why I’m getting more and more intense to come to this cafe after coming home from my office across the street. I want to meet those sad eyes, listen to her stories again and enjoy how beautiful her eyes are. Besides, I want to accompany her to wait for that person, of course she will be tired and lonely if she is waiting alone. Also, I’m curious about the person she’s waiting for: is it true that someone has sad eyes that are much more beautiful than hers? I want to see for myself the beauty of someone’s eyes and also listen to stories from those eyes, not just stories from this woman who owns the sad eyes.

***

Since the clock struck four in the afternoon, I have been sitting at this table. I deliberately chose the table closest to the table that the owner of the sad eyes occupied every evening. My intention was made up. I really wanted to tell her directly, not just through her sad eyes. Unfortunately, apparently this evening I have to return disappointed. Again, she didn’t come. Like the previous evenings. It’s been a week since those sad eyes disappeared from my sight.

Oh, where have those sad eyes gone? Is she getting tired of telling stories? Maybe she was tired of waiting for someone who never saw her. Or, the story has ended, so that she feels there is no point in sitting in this cafe anymore because there is no story she can tell me.

Ah, I’m not going to just give up. I will faithfully wait for her, maybe not this evening; maybe she is busy, has a lot of work, or there are obstacles that prevent her from coming. It’s possible. It could be. Maybe she will come tomorrow evening. The next day or the next day.

I will wait for those sad eyes to come back, tell me many things again, about someone she is waiting for. Of course, to make sure whether she came or not, I had to wait for her in this café, at the very corner table. A table that can let me freely leak the streets out there. From four to six in the evening, I have to be here, order a coffee and a piece of cake, then lean my head against the glass wall, playing back all the stories she tells me in my eyes: my eyes are drooping from being carried away by her stories. (*)

Source: 

https://cerpenkompas.wordpress.com/2010/05/09/mata-sayu-itu-bercerita/