I feel like a queen clung to white-knuckled memories. I have never had such a terrible hangover for 3 years. It was the whiskey shared with a date I met from a dating app.
It was. Rather than fumbling around kissing, biting and licking in the low-lit room, we chatted about our open-relationships and music. She described a piece by Stockhausen related to stars. Performers stay in a monastery for a week, without eating. The score includes watching the stars every night. At the end of the week, the blind folded performers are brought on to the stage to improvise. My date was disappointed because of the dull sounds, just like a regular new music piece. What about shouting, crying, or say, just staying still?
Our intellect nudged like a puppy. Almost all topics ended with the conclusion that is related to economics – by the way, I know nothing about economics. Why do you think theater is more realistic and contemporary dance is less interesting in the US compared to Europe? I don’t know… Maybe, there is not enough funding in the US, or artists must work more in different fields to pay the rent for studios. How do you think Brexit will affect the EU? I was listening to Varoufakis and he explained the dangers of leaving. He is such a good economist, despite being a leftist. Do you think radical leftists are as fascists as radical rightists? Why? Can anything with strong rules be considered as fascism? Maybe they’re just sick of how the world doesn’t change, despite their effort. Don’t you think that after a certain point they have a belly full of nationalism and become bitter and bitter? Pointing out the fucked-upness ain’t an easy commitment.
In the morning she was supposed to take a train to meet his grandparents. I have to remove my make up, change my clothes and shed the skin of my real identity. No reason to confuse 87 olds, she said. Her father replied positively to her call after two years of silence. Somehow I felt responsible, as she had no place to stay for the night: Nothing has to happen, but you can crush on my couch, I said. Afterwards I asked if I could kiss her. She made a gesture meaning: “how you wish, darling…”
Unfortunately, our juices and skins couldn’t intermingle as our brains could.
I know what you mean, but sometimes bodies just don’t fit to each other.
Yes, she stayed at my place, but I didn’t. Disappointment lingered in the air. She asked me to kiss one more time. We did. I had to leave.
In the morning, clichés such as “I’ll never drink again” marched along with a fanfare. I was feeling the pea under the mattresses, when I was walking back home from M’s place. Was I so naïve to give my place for a night to a stranger? I feel trust, I told to myself. Isn’t there beauty in this?
I don’t know, I didn’t ask her name.
Well, a note was waiting for me on the folded blanket:
Thank you lovely,