Pursed lips
Sunday, June 18th, 2006Eddie was somebody who was good with words. He had no problems composing a letter or carrying a conversation. He concocted beautiful quotes effortlessly and he always knew how to put himself in others shoes. Empathy was something that came naturally for him.
Eddie always knew what to say. Eddie had the gift of the gap gab.
He knew what to say at a funeral when somebody’s father passed away. He knew what to say in front of his mother’s friends so that his mother would feel proud of him. He knew what to say when somebody hostile confronted him. He knew what to say when somebody was trying to embarrass him. He knew what to say to console his friend who just broke up with his girlfriend. He knew what to say when he was apologetic and needed to ask for forgiveness. He knew what to say at farewell parties. He knew what to say to his supervisor when he missed a deadline. He knew what to say when he felt the need to impress a girl.
But today, Eddie had nothing to say. He opened his mouth, unconsciously wishing that it would kickstart his normally articulate tongue. Nothing came out except verbal constipation. The silent echoes ricochet against the walls, deafening his own ears. His lips started to tremble, in the same magnitude that his heart was trembling. Eddie pursed his lips tight, arresting the erratic motion of them. But there was nothing he could do about his trembling heart.
He hung his head low and shuffled his feet around, not really sure where to place them. Shovelling the gravel with the tip of his feet, Eddie understood the predicament. Words, which Eddie had always held in high prestige, don’t matter anymore. Not today.
