Where RiRi Waits

 The incandescent lights hummed. It was a flat, mechanical buzz that lived right at the edge of hearing, the kind of noise you only noticed in the quiet moments. Ria noticed it now, staring at the grey cubicle wall, the cursor on her screen blinking in mocking rhythm.


Just seventy-two hours ago, that blinking was the flash of a thousand strobes. The hum was the thunder of a massive speaker stack, the bass vibrating so deep it rattled her teeth and rearranged her organs. Seventy-two hours ago, she wasn't Ria. She was RiRi.


"RiRi, wheel and come again!" her girls had screamed, pulling her into the center of the road. And she had “Back it up pon the speaker box!”. She had spun until the sky became a blur of twilight and palm trees, her beautiful feathered costume catching the last orange glow of the Trinidad sun. She had played mas for Carnival. She had been the life of the fete, the center of the wining circle, sweat and glitter mixing on her skin like a sacred oil.


Now, the only thing on her skin was the dry, recycled air of a Manhattan office building. The only glitter was the faint, stubborn shimmer still lodged in her hairline that she couldn't bear to wash out. Her phone buzzed. A WhatsApp notification from the group chat, "Trini Girls NYC." Dozens of photos flooded the screen.


There she was. RiRi. On the stage with a DJ. RiRi, leading winer girl across the Queen's Park Savannah. RiRi, laughing, glowing, alive. She zoomed in on a photo. Her eyes were wide, bright, reflecting a sun that felt a million miles away. She looked like she was on fire. She looked at her own reflection in the black mirror of her turned-off monitor. Beneath the harsh office lights, she saw only Ria. Tired. Shoulders slumped. The faint lines of exhaustion around her mouth.


A memory ambushed her: Monday morning, J'ouvert. She did the soca marathon. The air thick with paint and diesel and pure, unadulterated chaos. She was covered head to toe in mud and oil, laughing so hard she couldn't breathe as a complete stranger smeared blue powder across her cheeks. She hadn't known his name, and he hadn't known hers. It didn't matter. In that moment, they were just two souls celebrating the gift of being alive.


Here, she knew everyone's name. She knew Karen from Accounting liked her coffee at 8:15. She knew Dave from IT had a wife named Susan. She knew the names of their dogs. And yet, she had never felt more anonymous.

Her boss walked by. "Ria, can you get those TPS reports done by EOD?"

She nodded. "Sure."


EOD. End of Day. In Trinidad, EOD meant End of Daylight. It meant the moment the sun dipped low enough for the next fete to start. It meant possibility.

Here, it just meant a deadline.

She pulled up a spreadsheet, the numbers blurring together. She could still hear the rhythm of a soca beat in her head, a persistent ghost in the machine of her corporate mind. "Work," she told herself. "Focus." But her body betrayed her. Her hips gave the slightest, almost imperceptible sway under her desk, a muscle memory responding to a song that had already ended.


She glanced at the photo again. Was that girl really her? Could that girl exist in this world of beige walls and incandescent light? The loneliness wasn't just about missing the sun or the fete. It was the loneliness of being two different people. The disconnect between the self you are when you are truly, wildly free, and the self you have to be to survive a Monday morning in a cold cubicle.


She closed the photo. She closed the spreadsheet. She opened a new email.

To: "Trini Girls NYC"

Subject: Next year.

I'm already looking at flights. Who's with me?

She hit send. The incandescent lights still hummed. The cursor still blinked. But for a moment, just a moment, she felt the sun on her skin again. And somewhere deep inside the tired shell of Ria, RiRi stirred, and smiled.


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The diver

 Dexter stood on the edge of the diving board, staring down at the shimmering blue water below. The roar of the crowd filled his ears, but his mind was cluttered with something else, the endless flood of opinions from social media. Some called him a rising star; others said he lacked the precision of a true champion. Each comment swirled in his head, threatening to throw him off balance. He had once thought that success would bring clarity, but the higher he climbed in the world of competitive diving, the more distractions surrounded him. He would scroll through his phone after each competition, absorbing the praise and the criticism in equal measure. The praise made him feel invincible, but the criticism clung to him like a weight, dragging his confidence down. Coach Ramirez had noticed his hesitation during training. "Dexter, momentum comes from moving forward, not looking back. If you let every comment control you, you’ll never own your dive." That night, Dexter deleted th...
Read more

The river

 There is a river in the South American highlands — ancient, winding, unassuming. It begins in the quiet hush of a moss-covered spring, threading its way through forest and stone. For most of its journey, the river moves gently, learning the contours of the land with patience, never in a hurry, always arriving. But then comes the cliff. It is not small. A sudden drop that is sharp and sheer, and carved by time itself. The river pauses at the edge, as if in contemplation. Below lies only air, noise, and the unknown. It would be easier to turn back, to remain safe within the bounds of familiar flow. Yet, it does not. The river lets go. With astonishing grace, it becomes a waterfall. No longer gliding but leaping. In that instant, it is no less a river, no less itself. It is, in fact, fully realized, moving not because it must, but because the moment calls for it. It does not shatter. It does not resist. It transforms. And when it lands, it does so with power. The impact echoes throug...
Read more

The old barista

 There is a café at the corner of memory and moment where every patron must choose their coffee, not in isolation, but in harmony with the meal of their life. Some select a bitter espresso, strong and unyielding, for theirs is a day of hard truths that must be swallowed quickly. Others cradle a creamy latte, sweetened just so, because today calls for gentleness, for small comforts. And then there are those who order their coffee black, no sugar, not out of preference, but because they have learned that some bitterness must be faced head-on, without dilution.   The regulars know: the choice of coffee is never just about taste. It is about what the hour demands. A cappuccino, frothy and light, pairs with a morning of possibility; a dark roast, slow and deliberate, suits an afternoon of reflection. The man in the corner stirring three sugars into his cup does so not because he loves sweetness, but because today, life has asked too much of him, and he must soften the edges....
Read more