43

If time was a physical being, it would follow Irene wherever she goes. On some days, time would fill the space around her as she waits for day to greet the night. From eyes following the tick of a second hand, to the finger that taps along, she is so in tuned with the habits of time that it would be hard-pressed to distinguish them both.
 

It’s why she never goes anywhere without her watch. Time is her friend, the silence that accompanies her lonely days.
 

People only know time has elapsed when changes happen. So Irene waits for the minutes to slip past and for days to go by in a blur, if only just to wait for that one moment to change her life.
 

And it happened.
 

Now, time is suddenly something Irene doesn’t have enough of.
 

In all her readings, general relativity fascinates her the most. One thing of Albert Einstein’s equations is that time passes slower in higher gravity fields. It means a clock ticks much more slowly in space than it does on Earth.
 

Irene barely checks her watch anymore, but when she does, she’s always surprised to find how fast time flies when she’s with Wendy. With gravity tying her so close to the girl, and the endless feeling of weightlessness, it goes against all her knowledge of the universe and shatters her perception completely.
 

No matter how much she reads, or how many equations she cracks, time would always baffle her.
 

“Honestly, I still have no clue what relativity means. I’m still boggled by that.”
 

Irene sighs wearily and folds her arms, “If you don’t get it after the first four times, I don’t see how the fifth time would help.”
 

Wendy chuckles in response, stirring a pot as a delicious aroma wafts through the air, “You would think by the fourth time, you should have realised that pronouncing your words slowly doesn’t make any difference.”
 

“I would expect, that by the fourth time, you would understand something.”
 

“Space-time. Time dilation. Singularities. My poor head hurts just thinking of them.”
 

Irene shakes her head, her face cracking into a smile, “Now you know how I feel when you try to stuff my head with all your bands and their animal-inspired names.”
 

Today isn’t the first of her visits to Wendy’s apartment, which is ten times bigger than Irene’s tiny dorm room. Of course, that wasn’t how Wendy described the place when they made their way there the first time.
 

“I live alone. It’s small but comfy,” said Wendy as they sauntered through a marble lobby with sun-inspired lighting fixtures, greeting a smiley doorman waving them past, “So feel free to mess the place up in any way you like.”
 

Irene was traumatised by the shiny floors, certain that she’s going to leave visible shoeprints behind her, “Your definition of small frightens me.”
 

Wendy grinned, “It’s not that bad really.”
 

If anyone writes a profile about Wendy and they describe her as just rich, they need to reconsider their choice of words. She is so stinking rich, almost drowning in filthy riches even, that simply saying she’s rich is ridiculous. Irene gapes at the golden doorways when the lift doors opened, utterly intimidated.
 

"Beware though. I set traps in some places and there's one where if you come too close, it can sting you on the a-"
 

"I wonder what gave you the impression that I am overly fond of hearing such things," Irene sighed amidst Wendy's guffaws. But Wendy’s joke lightened her mood slightly.
 

Wendy's apartment was second on the left and when she unlocked the door, she gestured to Irene with a flourish of her hand, "Welcome to my humble abode. Be careful of the anvil that's gonna drop on your head."
 

Irene steps inside doubtfully, but no steel block came crashing down on her. She stopped, eyes bulging.
 

She knew better than to take any of Wendy's words seriously, considering the girl's nature – she had expected the apartment to be littered with clothes and haphazardly stacked magazines, with food wrappers strewn everywhere. But there was none of that mess. Irene thought she must have walked right into a scene from an Ikea catalogue. She stood awkwardly, eyes touring the pristine place, with its gleaming wooden floors, white walls and high ceilings. There's even a balcony.
 

Her head hurt. Her eyes hurt. Maybe something did fall on her.
 

She's still in a daze when Wendy shut the door and waltzed past her, "Told ya to watch out for the anvil. You look like Wile E. Coyote."
 

Irene snapped out of it and called after her, "Coyote? Does that make you Road Runner?"
 

"Beep beep!"
 

Surely such a beautiful house can't possibly belong to this human personification of immaturity, tongue sticking out and eyes twinkling with mischief.
 

By the third visit, Irene has somewhat gotten used to the place. She still checks that there’s no mud on her shoes or anything like that, before she crosses the barrier between the outside world and Wendy’s precious space.
 

When Wendy had invited her to her house, it dawns on Irene that she doesn’t really know Wendy at all.
 

She thinks back of all the times they had hung out together and tries to find the scattered pieces of a puzzle. Rich. Avid listener of music. Parties hard. Breaks rules. Playful. Unpredictable. She counts them down in her head and shifts them around while trying to reassemble them, but the edges are little off, the joints hard to fit.
 

It’s all she knows of Wendy on the surface but beneath that...nothing. Not a clue of the person Wendy really is. Irene wonders how she could have not known anything when the girl is practically the only person she ever spends time with.
 

Can a friendship still be valid if she knows absolutely nothing of the other person? Irene remembers all the cryptic one-liners and riddles that doesn’t make sense, plus that annoying crooked grin that aptly summarises Wendy’s devil-may-care persona. She wonders why Wendy isn’t as forthcoming of her life as Irene was.
 

But being in Wendy’s apartment means a peek into the girl’s world. The scientist in her is thrilled - a step closer to solving the enigma, a possible breakthrough in her theory. But a part of her can’t help but to think that her presence there means much more to Wendy had let on.
 

Irene bobs her head along to the Taylor Swift song playing softly from the speakers. The girl could be spontaneous and shocking, from running in the downpour, to wreaking havoc on people's property, but Irene likes the unpredictability. She likes that each day with Wendy is full of surprises.
 

Like today. Wendy is cooking, something Irene never in a million years had imagined.
 

She watches in silent awe as Wendy chops, dices, grates and stirs. Each movement precise and mechanical, as if she’s following a rhythm that only Wendy knew, drifting back and forth between the stove and the counter.
 

"Don't you need a recipe?" enquired Irene earlier when she noticed the lack of a cooking book, not even a piece of paper with instructions written on it.
 

Yet, Wendy was b with confidence, "I don't need one," she tapped her temple, "It's all in here."
 

Irene was only slightly impressed, "Somehow that doesn't assure me."
 

"Oh please, nothing ever assures you."
 

And so Irene sits at the counter, nursing a glass of water while they chat about anything and everything, from the differences of low-fat and non-fat yoghurt, to reasons why bands love to name themselves after animals.