FIN
Flash of three white letters in upper case on the TV screen. Vivre Sa Vie ended a little past ten.
She seemed distracted.
“I came too late, didn’t I? There already is someone else,” I began.
“Oh. None. No one that matters still anyway.”
Split-second silence.
“Yes, there is no one else,” she sighed, repeating herself, clearly trying to convince herself more than she was trying to convince me.
I stood up, gathered my things to indicate my leaving, and then gave her a smile.
“Hasn’t anyone warned you never to hang your heart on the stars?” I asked. “And especially not on the moon. Even before it was discovered, the moon has been unfalteringly deceiving. Why else would it have so many faces?”
I knelt down to kiss her cheek. In return, she lightly touched mine. I had never seen eyes so sad.
“Oh, I got my heart back, alright. The moon never wanted it anyway. I still don’t understand why and how he could have held it for so long and not want it in the end. It is here with me now but it has been away from me for so long, it seems to no longer fit in me.”
“I had to put it in that box over there,” she explained, turning her head left towards a box that was, I think, intended for jewelry.
“You may take it with you. The last thing I need right now is my own heart. I am sick of it. I feel sick with it. You see, I got it back all worn out and blue. Nowadays, whenever I put it on, i feel all sorts of bad things — sadness, pain, fear, worthlessness, hopelessness, regret, despair, anger, hate. I used to believe that the heart could only take so much and then it would falter. I don’t understand why it’s still fucking beating. Take it if you want. I don’t have a need for it. Not now and not anytime soon. Take it. I’ll know where to find it. One way or another, it’ll find it’s way back to me. It would know when you no longer have a need for it.”
It was her turn to stand up now. She walked across the the room, picked the veleveteen box up then walked back towards me. She placed the box on my left hand.
“Whoever said hearts were plain bloody diots didn’t know anything. Hearts have their own minds; any romantic fool would know that. Which is exactly why I prefer to go around heartless. Hearts feel. Thus, hearts know. What I am not sure of is if they actually know better.”
I stared at the box I am now holding. Not sure whether to give it back or to throw it against the wall. I returned my gaze to her instead.
“What in God’s name am I supposed to do with this? I didn’t come here for your heart. At least not in such sick… literal… sense…”
She puts her forefinger on my lips, shushing me.
She smiled a little smile. A first in weeks.
“Let’s just say, I’m lending it to you. Now, go. I have an early train to catch tomorrow.”
the art of driving…
It was simple enough.
Quick, painless, and easy.
He came by. I got in. We drove around. No questions asked. No niceties exchanged.
There was the usual, unavoidable silence. The glaring sun was hurting my eyes, consequently making my whole face frown.
It actually felt good being where I was then, with whom I was with. Even if it was the last place I would have wanted to be in and him the last person I would have wanted to see.
Shall I tell you about rocket boy?
When we first met, the first thing I noticed were his shoulders. Then it was his nicely long and lean body. Statuesque. Also, he had beautiful hands and a face that made me glad. I, on the other hand, probably looked so lost, so fragile and with absolutely no direction in my old wringer, jeans and runners.
At that time, it semmed natural to talk about us being strangers. Strangers to each other, to the world, and maybe even to ourselves.
“A stranger is a safe place. You can tell a stranger anything, and he wouldn’t judge you. And even if he did, it would never really matter that much to you,” I remember him saying.
“But every little detail you reveal makes him less a stranger. A query would lead to another and you won’t realize until it’s too late that, bam! You had just foolishly revealed your little insecure self. After that, it’s a downward spiral. You’ll be face to face with precisely what you had just escaped from,” I countered.
After that little exchange, whenever we were together, he was mostly silent. I would often catch him staring at me, as though he had never seen me before. He seemed to be learning me. Or was it me who stared? I was endlessly curious about him. There had been times when I felt that he loved me, but I was never sure. He never said so; perhaps he didn’t know it himself.
So I left. And when I did I think it was relief he felt at being able to go on with his life; with the usual things he did. He didn’t even try to hide it and I was hurt.
I realized then that it was madness to draw someone into your own destiny, or to enter theirs. I had to leave, like I always did.
On this warm summer day and a year since we saw each other last, he’s with me again. We’re as quiet as before. Maybe because I am too afraid to ask why, how and til when, and he… he shows no sign that he is in the mood to explain, either.
I want to ask him to stay but I am too weary.
And so, we simply go on driving.
lalala..
lalalala-la..
lalala..
lalalala-la..
reverie l’ordre une partie
morning folly
cold shower. stockings. lipstick. poise. buses. the metro. un-traffic. high rise. water fountains. cocky stares. complimentary stares. what’s-with-her stares. vendo-cappucino. kahimi karie. candyman. good morning, world. salut, sunshine.
afternoon swoon
frustrated. japanese food craving. got lost. then found. glorietta. onion rings.coke! astroboy. funkily-dressed skinny guy. almost crush. seemed gay. sigh.yellow lamps. spandau ballet. francis archaster. UP fair. dionne warwick. orange bag. pizza. milkshake. aimless walking. diet coke! smokes. more stares.
idlewild night
un-japanesed. fried chicken. potatoes. diet coke!. fais-moi des vacances. didier bivel. tired feet. poor zinger. homeward bus. lazy stories. sleep drifts. bright idea–figaro! mocha. vanilla. fresh air. nicotine-hungry. a girl. a boy. a bouquet. the look of love. burt bacharach. stars. this charming man. more lazy stories. an ex-boyfriend. boys with bad taste. stupid pretty girls who like the boys with bad taste. awful music. annoying girl next in bathroom queue. cute, never-before seen frown. the inevitable walk home. beautiful shadow. and finally, the farewell frou-frous.
oeuvres romanesque.. oeuvres fictif…
Undress.
Take off your clothes.
Take off your body.
Hang them up behind the door.
Hold my hand.
We’ll trampoline.
Tonight we’ll go deeper than disguise.
Tonight we’ll be in our own fairytale.
Trust me, I’ll be telling you stories.
The story of my day, the story of my life, the story of how we met, of what happened before we met. The story he said, she said and the stories never uttered at all. And every story I begin to tell would talk across a story I cannot tell.
But then again I just might.
