A DIFFERENT LIFE


You will not hate me tomorrow, were the gentle words served alike with the gentle pour of water in the glass next to her other glass, the one filled up with the good stuff. How could I? she thought, unable to refrain from displaying a smile full of satisfaction, it is a grand feeling, indeed, to be handled by professional pride and natural empathy, like the one from those who can claim to be a properly skilled bartender. This particular admiration affair had over ten years of existence, for she had enjoyed the kind treatment and tender attention from the lady tendering the bar today since way back then. Back when she had a different life, or maybe not, for she still, somehow, feels the same, only improved, perhaps, like whiskey and wine do when time, righteously, plays its part. This talented bar attendant, who by now has gained the prestige of a dear friend that knows her well, still gets this elegantly new age rye based concoction beautifully chilled to perfection in this new mystical environment framed with dark velvet curtains, subtle lounge sound waves and pink marbled bar surfaces, like back then, in another time and a different place when she had a different life, or maybe just not, not that distinct after all.

A different life. Short-story from 12 o’clock-tales and after hours thoughts. The book

AMY, AMY, AMY


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-tales and after hours thoughts. The book.

LIPSTICK RED


The red on my lips helps me stay grounded, less ethereal. It keeps my mind sharp and aware of the bondage to my body. I study the mark it leaves on my glass as irrefutable proof of interaction. I will aim to drink from that same spot every time I quench my thirst, my body’s and my own. Thirst for the flavour, for the experience of this artistic expression on liquid form. Thirst for the taste and appreciation of a skilful creation in the search of perfection on a balanced, complex enough, exciting libation. With my red landmark I reiteratively stamp my approval as I curate the delicacy in my glass. With this kiss I relate to celebrations that have taken place in the past. With this motion I am in the room with Joséphine, Anne, Tamara, Hedy, Marilyn, Diana, Amy, and my neighbour next door, for we are all queens of our own kin, and the Physics that procure analysis on the behaviour of time still run jealously behind on this attempt to comprehen the bond within the female kind.

Red Lipstick. Short-story from 12 o’clock-tales and after hours thoughts. The book

ONE FOR THE ROAD

The clicking of her heels on the asphalt was the only sound surrounding her thoughts, as she walked down the street, at an hour when she always felt on top of the world. It was over, the feeling was gone, it was not that long ago they had met and the feeling was already gone. Her firm steps were guiding her heart to a stronger and reassuring beat, as they echoed up the narrow street, though cruelly pebbled, still appreciated by the romanticism attached to the architectonics of the age now passed. She was free and freedom tasted to reality. Shoes in hand, her feet felt cold. A snow flake landing on her nose took her back from melancholia, yet, another story that soon will belong to the past, with no special importance attached, living in her heart. The door from the bar, she had left behind, opened, letting out some recent former partners on the art of casual encountering, and, with them, muffed rhythms of the night, which, down there, often got a little stretched into brighter hours of the day. She grasped the leftover sounds and danced back and forth with time, for, though the feeling was gone, she was not quite yet ready to move on, and, she might as well, just for a short while, stay within the year of the cat with the Lucies in the sky.

One for the road. Short-story from 12 o’clock-tales and after hours thoughts. The book

ICE CUBES IN MY GLASS

It all feels different now. I see the ice cubes loosing their advanced position on the battle for the right to remain solid against my amber brown liquid as I rest the glass on the well worn-out wooden surface of the bar. Savouring how that sip had reached its perfection reminds me that “I thrive best on hermit style with a beard and a pipe and a parrot on the side”, said by someone else, and shared, for us either to embrace or to relate. I relate. My tongue feels the thrilling sensory parade this liquid has left behind. Peaty, hopy, malty… never been good at this kind of description, probably due to the lack of poetry behind. Life is poetry. Love is poetry. Stories captured for eternity, in songs and the like, loyal soundtrack to the crusade of eager cell troops towards molecular perpetuation, while we stand hopeless to their mercy, waiting for the so promised calm after the storm. It all feels different now. I can feel myself think over this Janis Joplin heart of mine, I guess, now, only my hair is that wild. I notice the seasons cycle, wind, rain, snow, the grey dark blue grow green aquamarine on the sea while I swim. The higher presence of water enhances other flavoured virtues in my glass. No night feels lonely as long as I can write. The candle’s flickering flame impregnates the walls of this bright enough venue with dancing shades of all of us, blue birds, participating in this scene. A proud feeling comes over me as I realise how I’ve managed to take the last sip in the glass before it got spoiled. Drinking, like living, is an art. My empty vase is acknowledged by the skilled bartender and I read the natural suggestion through the spark in her eyes and the lifting of her brows. I’ll take a Manhattan, dry.

Ice cubes in my glass. Short-story from ’12 o’clock-tales’ (The red table & A scared black cat)

MY PRETTY LEFT FOOT

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)