The sunlight peers through the palm fronds and gently falls all over Belle. Her hair lights up like a firebrand in some places, but sleeps quietly and moody in others. It is evening sun - that wonderful golden glow you sometimes get that blankets everything in a surreal light. The French refer to it as “L’heure entre chien et loup” or “the hour between the dog and the wolf.” Sometimes known as the twilight hour, it is also referred to as dusk or sunset. She’s napping and unaware of her splendour and radiance. I breathe quietly. My name is Sylus, and I live with Belle.
I head to the kitchen and pour myself a whiskey, after which I return to her on the patio. She has stirred, but not woken. The dogs are suddenly irritated and barking. It’s over quickly, just some strange dogs passing by on the street. I sip my whiskey slowly, lighting a menthol cigarette. Belle shifts, opens her eyes, sits up, and stretches ever so slowly. She blinks and our eyes meet, then she walks over and I touch her face. She kneads her cheek into my palm and then moves her head slightly as if to shake off the remnants of an uncomfortable dream. Without a word, she gracefully leaves me and heads inside. I’ll follow her in a minute. I like watching the sunset. It reminds me of the impermanence of things.
Darkness has arrived. I head inside to turn on the lights and check on Belle. She’s probably hungry, and there are some leftovers in the fridge. She sits quietly in the kitchen with a slightly dazed look. I prepare her a light snack. She never eats in large amounts, but she can be meticulous in her food choices. My mind drifts, wondering aimlessly for a few minutes, and then I notice that Belle has slipped away quietly. She does that sometimes, and I leave her alone at these times. When she wants to be with me, she finds me, and then we spend time. We exchange few words, as she is more of the silent type. We have been together for many years and know each other quite well. However, I still don’t know her honestly, and she occasionally shows discontent when I misread her or force her to be close to me. She doesn’t lie. She never has.
Dusk has passed, and it is a clear night sky. The moon is bright, not quite complete, yet shining brightly enough if one wanted to sail on calm waters. Belle is not comfortable in the water, while I love it. She is more content to relax, meditate, and observe her surroundings, and she never gets bored or asks for much. It suits me. She calms me down and reminds me to be patient.
“What’s the rush?” her face says to me. “Where are you rushing to?”
Yet Belle never rushes anywhere, nor ever worries about time. She worries about nothing. I guess that’s why she makes such a good companion, loves me unconditionally, and asks little in return. I pour myself another strong whiskey and celebrate the coming of the night. Belle often heads out and sometimes gets home later. It’s how it is. And in this particular relationship, it works. No deliberations, no altercations, no egos and no jealousy. It’s a little lonely sometimes, but conflict is minimised. It seems healthy and longer-lasting than passion.
A few more whiskeys later, it’s late, and I’m still alone. I like it that way nowadays. I think I do less damage. I'll leave her something to eat for when she returns home. She prefers canned food rather than kibble.