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He saw the first one when he caught its corner behind a dust-bound volume of textbooks. A wrinkled page torn from a datum notebook, its surface latticed tight by faded cyan squares.
When he unfolded it, he found a probably-boyish scrawl fluttering inside, printed in a paled blue ink. Too unusual an iteration of the syllable for a family name—probably a pseudonym, maybe a homonym for his real surname. Ling had tugged on his red tie, pulling him in for a welcome-home kiss. When Wei tucked a few strands of hair behind her ears, a blotch of blue split on the side of her pale neck, an inch below her jawline.
Startled, he pulled back. Wei blinked a few times, and with every rapid blink the burst shrunk back down to the small mole on her neck. Sometimes I dream of an almanac that contains all the answers to your existence. A calendar that divulges every single detail I need in order to demystify you in my mind. Every day I flip to the next page, and crucial facts about you emerge in deep red ink. At the beginning of these dreams, I rejoice.
I feel myself becoming whole as I amass more and more fragments of who you are. The more words I collect, the more textures you take up, and the more you begin to take shape. And somewhere in this steady flow of words and images, your existence comes to fruition. Only then, I know, will I be able to touch you. It always begins where my fingertips first land on the page. This happens whenever I turn my back on the present. And I do just that, without fail, every time I dream of this almanac of ours, or mine.
