Numbered Love by Maysam Yabandeh - HTML preview

The Miracle of Love

I was meditating on Vipassana in Eden Park when two kids, each more innocent than the other, left the nearby playground and walked up the grassy hill toward me. They must have been five or six years old. You could tell they were destined for love by the way they shared a lollipop. After each lick, the girl brought it to the boy’s mouth so he could have his turn.

“Excuse me, sir,” the little girl called as they reached me.

I smiled and turned to them. I also opened my eyes to make them think I saw the world through my eyeballs.

“Is it true that you are a genie?” the girl asked.

“What?!”

“Is it true that our wish will come true if we rub your bald head?” the boy asked.

I could no longer resist laughter. “Who told you that?”

“Samantha said so,” the girl jumped in. “And she swore that’s how she got the robot for Christmas.”

“Did she, really?”

“Can we rub your head too, please?” the boy asked.

“Well, first, I gotta know your wish, of course. That’s how the magic bald head works. Didn’t Samantha tell you about it?”

“She must have forgotten,” the girl said.

“She must’ve. Well, what can I do for you, my dear?”

“Can you marry us?” the boy asked, his excitement as bright as if he were already holding a ring in his pocket.

I chuckled. “Marry? How old are you? Five? Six?”

“Mister,” the girl explained. “If we don’t get married, he’ll have to go back to Vietnam.”

“Vietnam?” I sighed, my mind wandering back to the good old days. “That’s far away.” There it was, flashing before me: the image of Anh’s last moments, the son of Vietnam, whose life was claimed too early, for no crime other than being in love. This is a cruel world, I thought. It was time to change the world for the better with a touch of compassion. Let this Vietnamese boy enjoy the love that was denied to Anh.

“But I don’t wanna lose Livia,” the Vietnamese boy cried, his voice trembling.

“And you won’t. How about this? You will meet again thirty years from now, here in this very town. Let’s say on the Story Bridge. And…and at midnight, you will reunite and fall in love all over again. A love as pure as the innocence in your hearts now. Yeah, that would be nice. A love invincible. A love that will last all your lives.”

“Then we’ll get married?” the boy asked, excitement gleaming in his eyes.

“Then, you’ll get married. Forever.”

“Cool.” The boy smiled and licked the lollipop, biting its tip afterward.

The girl frowned, grabbed the boy’s hair, and yanked it back and forth.

The boy whined like he’d been stabbed in the back with a poisonous dagger, his ear-piercing cries pleading for a cure to an incurable wound.

I was about to block my ears when the girl leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.

With his eyes widened, the blushing boy stopped crying instantly, as if he’d never been wounded at all—a miracle of love unfolding right before my eyes. While keeping his eyes locked on the girl, he licked the lollipop when she offered it again.

Still holding the lollipop out to him, she said, “You can have two licks.”

Smiling, the boy licked it once more.

After watching their little quarrel, I had some second thoughts. “Who do you love the most, Livia or Lollipop?” I asked the boy.

“Lolli-Livia, Livia, Livia.”

I chuckled. “Hmm, I’ll tell you what, let’s have a contingency plan.”

“Huh?”

“Plan B. Let’s have a Plan B. If either of you changes your mind before midnight, thirty years from now, just say the word Bazinga for a do-over.”

“Bazinga.” The boy giggled. “It’s funny.”

“Bazinga.” The girl giggled too.

“Bazinga,” the boy said.

“Bazinga,” the girl said.

“Bazinga,” the boy said.

“OK, OK,” I said, cutting into the seemingly infinite loop. Let’s put a limit on that. From now on, you can say it only three times.”

“Baz—”

“—Oh, be careful now. You don’t want to waste your Bazingas, do you?”

“I guess not,” the girl said, her nose scrunching as her smile faded.

“All right, now go play with the other kids. You’ll grow up to be the modern-day Romeo and Juliet,” I said, proud of laying the foundation for a love story as timeless as theirs— minus the tragic ending.

“But we have to rub your head first,” the girl said, almost screeching.

“Or our wish won’t come true,” the boy added, backing her up.

“All right, all right. Let’s make it quick.” I leaned in and felt their sticky hands rubbing my head, as if they were trying to summon a genie from a magic lamp. “OK, that’s enough.”

“Thank you, Mr. Genie,” the boy and girl said in unison. As they walked down the grassy hill, they took turns licking the lollipop.