I write novels, he said. I write short-stories, said she. Well, that is also fine, replied he, a patronizing clumsy tall pale male standing in front of her, giving the impression of embodying a degree of hope for success in the business of inspiring some attraction and interest with his unfortunate display of efforts. She looked away with her eyes narrowed and a closed grin, are you for real, was the thought making her mind laugh. Apparently, he was. He proceeded by seriously suggesting going for a walk some day and went away with his clumsy ways. She looked at the sea, at the waves, the geese, the seagulls, the Jacob’s staircase, and allowed herself to be fascinated by nature’s beauty and nurturing balance. The take and give, the here and now, the then and there. Her feet dipped in the sand, her toes getting wet. Her back on the ground, she faces the sun with her arms stretched out and the palms of both hands down, her fingers exploring the newly born morning dew moisture, playing to get lost in the crispy green grass in this fine and random Sunday blast with a tall pale stranger and his clumsy ways delivered with a tender look in his sweet pale blue eyes.
You’ll meet a tall pale stranger.Short storyfrom 12 o’clock-tales and after hours thoughts. The book.
I often find myself talking to Amy, I listen to her and my answer is underlined in the way I embrace her voice through my presence, the physical and the other, and I think on the time we met, or our lives crossed paths, more like. You excused yourself politely while approaching the bar with your tiny delicate body close to mine. You asked for salt, for your toothache, you said, and I wondered if that was indeed an old-fashioned trick, something you might have learned back home, before you belonged to all of us and the world. While you made your way through, I remained seated on that tall stoel with a very tiny dress I would only wear that day, for I have never again been that skinny as I was back then. In the time when scrutiating pain filled up my whole self, pushing out any coherent sense. It was indeed a high pitched tragedy. To feel my empty breasts, like empty bags, hanging by my chest, like barometers of my confussion and lonelyness. I heard we were following each others steps, swinging from bar to bar with our tiny bodies in our tiny apparels. I, annonimously and you, under the brightness of the spotlight and the gossip. I stared, without the etiquette and manners I so often lack, at you, wondering if it was worthy to go that far, to get lost in the dark where one finds the inspiration for the heart-moving art, despite our benefit and joy, while you struggled and despared. In my ideal world we all seat in a bar with a Martini on one side and a coffee table book on the lap, and you and I, smile every time we cross paths. Oh, Amy, Amy, Amy.
Amy, Amy, Amy. Short-story from 12 o’clock-talesand after hours thoughts. The book.