Heirlooms

Short Fiction | Suraya Kiawan-Tessa

“Will you friend me?” Taro guffaws.

That’s not what it says. You turn to glare at her, but she’s already lying on the synthetic rubber surface in stitches.

The protective tint of her helmet stops you from seeing her face, but you can still hear her. It’s the same laugh she’s had since she was ten. It’s her auditory fingerprint; the reason you’d know she was at work, in the cubicle next to yours. You start too. 

You’re suddenly relieved that he chose to stay inside the station. The distance and the ambiguity that the bulky, oxygenated suit lends you also buys you some time.

He didn’t want to join the both of you on the wing of the station because it looked precarious, like the wings of the airplane in his nightmares. It is similar—but much wider, sturdier, safer, and strong enough to hold the weight of a few stargazing cosmonauts. 

To pretend you haven’t read his placard or the glaring mistake he made, you keep your head turned away from the window.

There’s a misspelling.

He meant to write kahwin but wrote kahwan. The misspelt word means nothing but it looks a lot like kawan. 

So ‘marry’ now looks like ‘friend’ and ‘will you marry me?’ is now—

“Why must write in Malay?” Taro manages to blurt out.

She’s right. It seems meaningful but he’s never tried to learn before. Why now?

“You know this is making the news, right?” She’s more composed now, seated upright again. 

The TV crew came on this flight to document the new fruit being added to the list of plants approved for cultivation and consumption on the moon and other colonies. With their attention on his placard, he turns more towards the camera, more away from you.

You look ahead. The milky way paints the heavens with its stars and celestial bodies—it’s the only way you want to feel insignificant.

***

When she was alive, your grandmother spent her days on the common walkway in her makeshift garden. You learnt about life that bursts from seeds and dirt. Soon, you understood that for them to flourish you had to master the science of the world above you. So when it came time to work, astrobotany made sense. 

Despite your fascination with the heavens, you hadn’t used your employee discount on tour packages to the new space station. He pointed this out to you in a joke that made only him and his friends laugh.

A week later, you made the arrangements (he paid, he was adamant about that) and you confided in Taro about your reluctance. People reserved these trips to celebrate milestones or to create one. You were hesitant to do either with him. But Taro knew what you were asking, even if you didn’t; she got herself a ticket.

That night, you told him about the rambutans. 

“I just think that if you’re going to bring some Southeast Asian fruit to represent your people in space, it should be something pretty,” he laughed.

You grimaced. The rambutans don’t represent your people. Firstly, that’s a lot to put on a fruit and even then, it’s just ridiculous. 

You also can’t understand this misguided association between beauty and the tropics. You remember showing up for a blind date, trying to hide the layer of sweat that formed while you were walking three minutes from the station to the café. 

He’s right though, the rambutan is not pretty. But, it’s gloriously unapologetic with its playfully messy red hair and tough skin. Seems fitting that 10-year-old Taro used to chase you around the void deck, trying to tickle you with its hairy exterior. 

When he retreated to sleep, you freed the rambutans from their plastic bag. To meet your company’s strict regulations on fresh fruit in carry-ons, you pruned them the way your grandmother used to. All this knowledge and rambutan fragments were at your fingertips. The latter seemed to hover above them, caught between the low gravity pocket you created with the rapid trimming. You had two options: flick your hands to help the bits fall or just wait. 

***

“He wants to impress you.”

Not you. He lives for other people.

“I’m not impressed,” you finally say.

“I mean yeah. The man didn’t use spellcheck, can’t copy a question correctly, and didn’t ask me to proofread it.”

He didn’t ask Taro – the only other Malay friend he has; your sister. You still can’t see her face but you know the look on it. 

His face, on the other hand, is clear. He’s still standing there by the window, still holding the placard over his head, eyes pleading. 

A crowd has gathered to record the spectacle with their phones.  

“Say yes and he’ll only be the second or third guy to get engaged in the Earth’s orbit,” she burped.

“No one remembers third place.”

“Right. But if you say no, he becomes the first man rejected here. I don’t know about you but there’s a kindness there. 

“Also, technically, saying yes would be agreeing to be his friend.”

You don’t try to hide your laugh anymore. You glance at the window; the crowd looks confused. He’s gone.

You take a deep breath and lie next to Taro. 

Above you the stars continue to shimmer, no brighter or dimmer. The sweet gentle scent of rambutan wafts around you.