Moonlight sonata

Side by side on a bed. Laughing and teasing. Talking more than we did in ages. It is intimate, at least it is for me. Now, I can feel it — suddenly. I avoid touches, avoid glances. I'm here and I'm not. She likes it that way, I can tell. Yet I can't tell if that's all she wants. If I knew, if I only knew!

What? What would I do? Would I passionately make love to her tonight only to ignore her in the nights to come? Would I promise — myself, of course — that it'll all be different — only to find out it wouldn't? 'Cos it so bloody difficult to change. To change me.

Hence Beethoven instead. Again.

Outward bound

Went out to clear my mind. A club, drum and bass, two beers and two pills. Didn't feel like dancing. Felt like eating a hamburger. Did. Caught a cab and went home. Stared at ceiling until six.

Slept until midday. Teased by the sun, made a phone call. Had a date. Pashing in the meadows behind the city, dining together. Drove her off, went home, slept again.

Read the news. Listened to Bjørnstad. Did not feel melodramatic.

In the park

One of those sunny days that ask for going out, love and making love in the wild. We're driving to a lake surrounded by a park on the city outskirts. Talking about life and how it's changed since we've known each other. It's been merely a year, I note after a short walk as we sit on a bench concealed in the corner.

Sitting in the restaurant an hour later, I feel like it's been a century, not a year. It all simply... clicks. Yet the timing is far from right.

How did you dare?, she texts me late at night. Dunna, I answer. Most probably, I felt like doing it so I did.

Hope there's more years to come.

What crisis?

It's one of those unexpected quiet parties. Fancy a joint?, a colleague asks me as we're driving home. It's Thursday afternoon, half-weekend, therefore I don't even pretend to hesitate. I'm in.

Sitting on the bank of the river, there's us and some others, all office rats puffing their laziness away. They let Ellie go, someone mentions. Yeah, boobs didn't help, did they?

Swans are having bread rolls instead of an afternoon tea.

Inline skates are in again.

So are the miniskirts.

Sun is setting. I enjoy its rays touching my skin after months of wintery coldness. And the ice inside me is melting, too.

Wireless fidelity

Plastic People come there — and so is she. They have a beautiful prehistoric iMac G3 in the back library-slash-office, I had one of those once, too. The bar is usually crowded and noisy. And polluted. Smoking is still allowed in pubs in this country. I should hate this place, yet I love it.

I didn't expect to see her — at least not anytime soon. She called saying she had a problem with wi-fi and asked if I could come over to fix it. Yeah, I guess I could. Instead, we met there. She talked a lot and I patiently listened. And then we went sleeping at her place. Separate beds — for those who care.

The morning was lovely and intoxicating, it felt like mornings in Paddington. I went to buy ingredients and she prepared a luxury breakkie. We giggled as if... —

I slapped her ass few times as she danced around the kitchen more naked than clothed. I could sense her pussy under almost non-existent panties. Then she stripped and I gave her a massage. How close were we? Could I? Couldn't I?

I didn't. I know where to find her and she knows who to call in case there's an issue with wi-fi again.

In the Ghetto

Radio in my ears is playing Nick Cave's rendition of Elvis's classic. Walking down deserted streets after midnight seemed to be a better idea than being left home in agony, hunted by demons of solitude, demons I hate and adore at the same time as they torture me the same way they make me relish my life and subdue the everlasting numbness of my days.

Buying a Kinder egg, not for me; it's for those deep curious eyes.

Kneeling

Life hurts — and on top of that it's fatal. It can squeeze my heart deep in the night when I'm too weak to pass out. Looking up the stars, if there's any, and trying to hide from troubling thoughts, unable to suffer like a man when confronted with my existence. It seems never-ending, stabbing me, boiling me, ripping me, smiting me. Negligence, ignorance, confusion, all my miscalculated slips and wrongdoings over the years are coming back to me. Lies, lies, and more lies — in and around me. And solitude, it strikes me — so unwanted, so desperate, so lonely. It's all falling on me like a rubber wrap, blinding me, tying me, suffocating me, hunting me down.

But then, for a single smile of those deep curious eyes, I'd lay down my life with grace. As for that moment alone, it's worth to live and worth to die.

Family man

I don't know. I've been told zillion times to avoid doing that — but I can't help myself. She appears from nowhere, we chit-chat, drink wine, watch a movie and rather sooner than later end up in bed. And then all of a sudden, there's a relationship. I come home and she's home.

Hello!! — She's home at my home.

I guess I don't mind. I come home mainly to sleep anyway, so why bother, right? I can sleep with her. She gets me and as a bonus she can enjoy my erotic yakking and my erratic ego. And of course — she can cook and wash up, too, hopefully at least occasionally.

I also get to do whatever else partners do — one gets a vague idea from sitcoms and I learnt a thing here and there.

Generally, things like sharing a bath, seducing when not necessary, being fun and being around contribute to a good vibe. Talking late at night in bed and falling asleep while hugging do, too. Being moron and only sporadically around ain't that great. Also coming home wasted too often is not a terrific idea at all.

Thinking about it, I'm a more on a good side. I even take garbage bag with me when I leave the place. I can operate a washing machine and a microwave oven. And I can lend a helping hand even if not asked to.

Yet I still don't know. I wonder. I hesitate. I'm way too far from being sure I'm a natural-born family man.

Just looking

I observed the Alps from the office kitchen when the weather was nice. Waited for the water to boil and sipped tea afterwards, gazing at the mountains. Guten tag, said somebody passing by. G'day, I answered.

Did you enjoy your food?, repeated uninterested waiters their routine question over and over in different places. I blankly nodded while my grim expression screamed no-bloody-way! everywhere I went.

Everywhere but Swagat, the place to eat Indian in this city.

Stared through the hotel window at night. Flipped through TV channels. Scrutinised my face in the mirror. No, I wasn't bored, just lifeless.

If I was expecting redemption through driving home in blizzard, it hadn't come.

Where the heck is warmth?

Burnt out

Why, oh why, didn't I bite his cock off when I had a chance, thinks she, looking at me with a mix of hate, disgrace — and love. I'm trying to stay as cold and numb as possible; and it's not too difficult. Been there, done that.

She's smoking at a solid pace of 5 ciggies an hour. Having her fifteenth, meaning we've already been sitting here for 3 hours.

I told her everything she eagerly wanted to hear. That perhaps smoking 40 a day ain't the best way to keep a non-smoker by her side. That being regularly three hours late for meetings ain't the best way to keep a reasonably square guy. And that otherwise she's close to perfect. And I'm sorry; 'cos — to a degree — I am.

She's desperately trying to keep her cool and hide her wetting eyes. I'm walking her off. One more hug, a brief fleeting kiss, a sigh and it's over. Night is closing on me, I'm suffocating; exhausted by the experience, I need to fall asleep to breathe again.

Là-bas

This is very much like the old days; my place deserted in the same way my soul is. Nothing but mess and leftovers remind me of once glamorous youth of yesteryear. It's late at night; emptiness is asking questions, demanding answers. I cannot fall asleep. A zombie-to-be is staring into darkness. Would be watching a movie instead; if I only understood French. Tonight, it'd be Les nuits fauves for sure.

Hanging around, lingering, reflecting. This is me, brainwashed by never-ending commitments; by useless, unimportant responsibility. Not blaming anyone, not even myself. It is how it is — a conformist approach by a conformist scumbag. Am too weak to look for a quick fix tonight, just making a note.

On the light side, it's been snowing today.

Ample make this bed

As fate would have it, suddenly there's two of them. Both tall, both beautiful, both a bit... insecure? Both, as it seems, attached to me. Unaware that they're sharing me.

Here I am. An imaginary fag hanging out of my gob, I'm neither Bogey nor Bebel. Just a tosser who has to toss one of them at his earliest convenience.

Will act sharp. Look and be sorry. All's fair in love and war.

Or, if my dirty old soul would handle such turn, I could ditch them both and start fresh and clean.

Nonsense, of course, that was just a thought. Sigh. Sigh.

Yoshinoya

Dead tired. Silently walking home and buying something to eat along the way. Closing the doors behind me, falling on the sofa. Having a sip of JB, looking at high-rise shadows from the balcony. Music — maybe something very ambient, very eighties. Eno.

Teriyaki chicken, chopsticks, green tea. And snoozing off.

Cannot forget that place, I even remember the click of the doors, the colour of the carpet, the sound of the sofa as I was diving in. Some days are much more difficult than others. And longing, it fills me head to toe.

A ladies' man

You're saying the exact words they want to hear and you're doing it unwittingly. It's spontaneous and unpremeditated — and they love it. You're wooing quietly but surely; before they know they fall for you. I'd do, too, wasn't it for my long-time boyfriend and the fact that you're not attracted to me, right?

I nod hesitantly, perhaps just to be polite; yet she's only half-right. I'm not attracted to her. The rest? There's no better way to put it than Mr Cohen did:

My reputation
as a Ladies’ Man was a joke
It caused me to laugh bitterly
through the ten thousand nights
I spent alone

Business partners — part two

A bash. She's sitting next to me again. I knew she would and she knew I would, too. Spent so much time on the phone recently. Yeah, business, nothing more. Usually late at night. Talking about joy, lust and pain business. Pain business, mainly. Hers. She moved out but they haven't split officially. Yet.

He's sitting so close I can't even whisper in her ear. I can touch her though. And message her. And read what she's texting me. And wait and see.

Gathering's over by 2 a.m. He's smashed, disappearing into the night. Off by himself, so is she and so am I.

What is part three going to be about?

Point break

I won't need these, she says as she rolls down her panties and jumps to a bed next to me. Looking up at my transfixed face, she giggles. It's far from dark, full moon lights up the room, deceiving relics of her modesty. It's the last ever second before I press my lips against hers and leave my tainted misbelief behind.

Flying low

It's 5 AM. Waking up after a three-hour sleep ain't easy. It's full moon, sharp coldness draws underneath. Teens' washed-out faces greet me along the way to the airport. Some of them are trying to figure out if I'm one of them — but the weekend bag gives me away. Most of them can't be bothered.

Flying is so mechanical, so lifeless, so dull. Exhausting, without being exciting. I'm starving to get from point A to point B in a blink, as a machine, not looking left or right, just passing through crowds and checks as a knife slicing butter, then sleeping on a plane and then crowds and checks again, until I breathe a fine cold air mixed with fumes someplace else. And a bed, I always need a bed afterwards, unless it's already evening and one has to party. Or unless it's morning and one has to work.

Once there were single-serving friends, those are long gone with the dawn of cheap flights; nobody even troubles oneself to pretend they're interested in the fellow in the seat next to them anymore. Nobody talks to anybody; why would they? It looks silly on a bus and more so on a plane now. Hour here, hour there, one can read a paper or dig their nose instead. There's no point to care.

This everlasting nausea is suffocating and torturing, yet one never drowns. It's over in short enough time and there's still flowers blooming outside, Jim Beam flowing and girls making love. And that does it for me as soon as I land. Every time.

May this be love

She came over to assemble my IKEA furniture. She said she loved doing it and I had no reason to oppose. Seeing she really came over with a toolbox and an electric screwdriver, I got she was serious.

So we built the bookcase, drank wine and watched a movie. Ate olives and talked. Laughed a lot and looked at each other, studying each other's smiles — and doing nothing more. Went sleeping side by side; without a single touch, without a thought of doing so.

And woke up, had breakfast and talked and slept again until late; little bed-in, just her and me, without the world interfering. It wasn't until dusk when we took off and went skating. Came back exhausted and hungry, went eating out and then to her place to watch a TV show. Drank more wine and shared another bed, more wine again and another set of curious looks and surreal smiles.

A night club after midnight, vodka/orange, thank you and thank you again. Night tram home, meaning my home, she put my t-shirt on and laid next to me as if it was the most natural thing in the universe. I'd love to hug her and strike her hair; nevertheless nothing's gonna happen, I won't do a thing. Is it because she's eleven years my junior? Or is it 'cos she's a friend of a friend who told me not to hurt her? Or am I only being pathetic and useless? All of the above?

Another morning and another bed-in till noon. Snoozing, watching movies, listening to music. And skating through the city again. Takeaway dinner and blankets. And a late night movie.

Maybe I should go home now, she says after a forty-eight-hour marathon. I kiss her good-bye and disappear in a second only to talk to her over the messenger within an hour.

It's only been a while — yet I wonder.

Schizophrenia

I woke up next to a beautiful twenty years old witch. She's twenty; twenty! — not even twenty-something. Lovely. I'd do it; yet it takes time. There's rules.

Few hours later, I'm enjoying time with my ex. I really do. Sadness fills me once she's gone. 'Cos I know she's gone. She's gone for good, even though I see her from time to time. I know, I know, I know.

Now, a third one's coming. I'm thinking fuckfest. I'm thinking fuckspree.

In fact, it looks like I'm not thinking at all.

Touchdown

Another week, another trip. The plane was packed, overhead lockers cramped, people nervous and disturbed. A rainy night. Maybe a bit windy, too. A baby was crying non-stop through the flight. Attendants were looking at each other, slightly strained. Nothing much happened but for few roller coaster dives. Air turbulence, they call it. Free-falling for a mere second here and there.

I stared in front of me, dumbstruck, somehow knowing it's all cool and safe, yet masochistically hoping for at least a crash landing.

Can't recall such a soft touchdown in ages. People were clapping and cheering when we landed.

Got wasted as soon as I got off the plane.

These two stories are totally unrelated, of course.