I look down at my left foot, my favourite part of my body. It looks very pretty in my pink and red high-heeled shoes. I only choose to wear them today to honour and match the decoration of this new venue I’m being shown to. It’s hidden, the kind one rings on a very discreet bell on a wall of a building that seems to host something else. The tones are white and blue, quite unusual for the business of this kind. The temperature feels just right and the perfectly studied intensity of light serves the atmosphere aldente to the eye. Glass in hand, old-fashioned, I’m back to my roots and back to my reflections as I check up with my heart. Beginings are nice, and exciting, though I had few beginnings lately that were quite mellow and flatsided. I told myself, it made sense, I am getting older, my beloved hormones are probably down on my feet now, playing with peebles on the beach talking to each other ‘ain’t it nice to be retired!’ But then there was ‘this’, and there is you and your ‘hell, yeah’ sexy voice, smart approach, and I am back to feeling excited. Beginnings are nice, the romantic and the business like, a new project, a collaboration by the horizon has also brought sparks to the eye, and the mind. Old habits die hard. I’m back to raising the glass to ideas in exchange, all parties involved hoping to be part of something great. I look back down at my left foot in my red and pink high-heeled shoe and I wish for this beginnings to stick and move onto the next phase where I can celebrate the comfort and warmth of the things that are steadily nice in my life.
My pretty left foot. Short-story from ‘12 o’clock-tales’ (The red table and a scared black cat book adventure)
She was the girl with flowers in her hair not to be found in California but in a small bar at the road’s end, seated alone by the table at the far in corner of the room, the one close to the mirror on the wall framed robustly gold. With her gaze she would catch her eyes, there, there she was. Into her eyes she meets the little girl, the one that likes to play. She smiles. Once she finds herself in there, she listens, hears stories. Many recurrent and many she had almost completely forgotten. She smiles, bites her lower lip ‘oh, dear, what have I not done!?’ She laughs at her groupie, gipsy, diva heart. By the time the bartender arrives, silver tray in hand, she’s back from memory lane with satisfaction written all over her face. Takes the glass, cheers to the graceful deliverer and through the first sip feels all the flavours swimming into her mouth. Eyes closed now she listens, hears stories. Many recurrent and many she had almost completely forgotten.
The girl with flowers in her hair. Short-story from “12 o’clock-tales” (The red table & A scared black cat, book adventure)
Is it me, or the screen of our telephones is taking our will to be physically wherever it is we might find ourselves on any moment, one login at the time. If this was something, somehow, we pondered about before, now, in a way, it is almost a matter of fact, one could even say. Says the woman writing this story on such a device. I try to avoid it, falling into the trap. Used to feel so embarrassed of finding myself nose to screen in public. I am still embarrassed, the only difference is that, now, that does not stop me from acting like an idiot anymore. Cause I do feel like an idiot while I’m holding this little, it didn’t seem so little at first, kind of the opposite, actually, rectangular flat screen shinning back at me. A sudden hope for a Midnight special to shine a light on me instead, reminds me that it is up to me to be this way. As the idiot in me snaps out of her idiotic hypnotic zone, though still with the help of the same device, I decide to play the song, unavoidably surrounded by flashing propositions and catchy lifestyle changing improvements for five seconds, that this days have the same sensorial length as an eternity, and I look through the window to my left hand side, for to my right there’s only a sea of idiots like my kind and that could, almost, make me cry, for only five minutes ago I was giving the same sad show. It is very much in my nature to loose track of space and time getting lost in my thoughts, though, that was the sort of thing that made me proud, it was almost like a super power, whereas this, now, feels almost dishonest towards my evolution, diminishing my chances to a graceful future.
The shinning. Short-story from 12 o’clock-tales (The red table & A scared black cat, book adventure)
Actually, I don’t even know if I remember how it feels to be in love. Have I ever been in love? I dare to say. I remember excitement, my mind focused on a person unable to handle any other thought of use. What was that feeling, hyperbolically intense, I sometimes encourage myself to remember? Her friend looked at her with an intention of smile in her face and the thought of considering cancelling the next round that was probably not that close of being done and delivered. The venue was packed not one more barfly could fit, yet, they both felt there was only them as they always do when they seat by the corner of that bar that has seen them grow closer together. Unfolding world’s mysteries one sip at the time. Reassuring each other through the game of adulthood. Two young girls at heart, looking into each others eyes with the silent message “we have, never the least, got this far”
Girlfriends. Short-story from “12 o’clock-tales” (The red table & A scared black cat, book adventure)
You are, oh, so very hot. At least, in my mind. Though we haven’t met, yet, we have talked. Chatted. Emojies, hearts on text clouds, as a landmark of approval, and the way you have described yourself. Oh, are you good with words. I dream on your hair, dark blond curly hair. I dream on your eyes, grey, dark blue at times. I dream on a body that likes to keep fit but not to the extreme. I wonder if I could take you off your uniform one day, or you rather strip it all off yourself for me. I don’t need you to have a play room but I want you to be playful. While we listen to the beats we’ve shared, the ones that turn you on and my own. I am very aware I am smoothly crawling over to that sensitive phase, the one when my boiling point ignites. Not in search for danger, nor ‘out of this world’ adventure, diamonds in the raw live among the ordinary and that is quite extraordinary. My fantasies are shaping, taking forms, defining and detailing, even though I’m yet to know who’s behind the secret door. Who’s this Mr. Sir Lord of the Vikings turning my mind and body on. Your words, clever, your conversation, smooth, and your attention, sublime. It is within my nature to trust, for I know about this tiny little troll that lives deep inside within this magic nurturing forest that has grown within my heart, seating and patiently waiting, holding in the hand a crimson velvet rope, attached to a shinny golden bell that will ring into my head, shall the moment come in which I must wake up from the spell.
Sir Lord of the Vikings. Short-story from “12 o’clock-tales” (The red table & A scared black cat, book adventure)
I am the other woman. I cook dinner for one. I don’t plan holidays, commit nor adapt. I make no concessions, I don’t meet half way to my happiness. I have it all. My life, myself, my dinners for one. I’m mine. I am free but taken, I couldn’t wish for more. My bed, my space, and you, every now and then, when we can, when we have time when it suits all three of us. Romantically polychromatic, we are all in this together, for you I feel love and for her admiration, maybe love as well, the one that comes from respect. I find myself compelled to indisputable loyalty to the one you call your wife. She’s my partner in crime. Tonight, we meet. As I walk down the staircase of our usual venue, it’s escalating desire I feel. I’m attracted to your mind, your heart and the animal inside you. We meet to release the beasts and the outcome of our encounter is already agreed upon. With all our cards on the table, kisses filled with passion and your hands around my face, we greet, the pleasure is all mine, you will be coming with me tonight.
The other woman. Short-story from “12 o’clock-tales” (The red table & A scared black cat, book adventure)