One more thing

Four years ago, I was sitting opposite her in a Mexican joint. She was shy, very shy, yet every time her eyes met mine, she smiled. Ended up giving me her number without me asking; and I knew I could.

Haven't seen her in a month. Popped by to swap books and photos.

— How are you? — She asked in a desperate attempt to start a conversation. It was plain and banal — and heartbreaking.

— Good. All's good.

— You, you wanna say anything?

— Nah. Am not ready yet, maybe later. — I sigh and stand up to leave.

I'm leaving and not looking back. Back in the street, I can breathe again. There's one more thing, I message her: I wanted to spend my life with you — and I'm still sorry it didn't work out.

She never replied.

Pandora's box

I was so close. Could have driven to her place and ring the bell. Could have called her and asked her out. To have a coffee. A chat.

If I ever had learnt anything about love, it was because of her. She made me go through all stages, numerous times. I hoped and wished for breaking up for ages, yet when it happened the relief was non-existent; the enduring pain lasted far longer that I'm able to admit even after more than a decade.

Yep; it made me the man I am today. And maybe that's why I cannot ring that bell.

Scaling down

I guess it has already started on a plane. An insomniac brain circling around the same topic over and over again. A girl sleeping next to me, another two awaiting me at the destination. And a few more scattered around. Me — an unsettled scumbag scoring like an alfa male. Pretentious. Perhaps fun for a moment — but then certainly a drag.

A week has passed. Overseas seems like a distant ship's smoke on the horizon. A mere week — and it's all different. Out of two, there's none. And I'm to deal with another two over the weekend.

Fine now. Time to concentrate.

Zona Sul

Resting in a hammock and doing virtually nothing but sipping caipirinha. Or lying on the beach and doing the same — virtually nothing but sipping caipirinha. The Wikitravel said clearly:

Perhaps the best thing to do in Rio is nothing

Right. I guess drinking, partying, lazily walking around or getting laid still counts as nothing. I'm drained and withdrawn; and before the restart, this is exactly what I hoped for.

Truly amazing how cool can nothing be.

Low point

Wanna come over tonight?, I message her, perhaps more shrewdly than anything else. I don't want to be falling asleep alone. I've had enough last weekend and insomnia is back with a vengeance. It used to be an integral part of my life for years and I'm worried now.

She longs to be caressed and she longs to confess. And cry: she breaks into tears as soon as she starts talking. It's the low point, her therapist apparently explained. It would get better and than worse again and better once more. Seemingly neverending sinusoid of highs and lows.

I'd love to help but I cannot: it's her own mind at stake, I cannot interfere. She has to find on her own what's good and what's not, what she wants and what she doesn't. Any advice would be useless if not hurtful.

I'm fondling her gorgeous breasts when falling into abyss of dreams and it seems perfectly natural — yet that's was not on my agenda; not even as a bonus. It's just happened to be a part of a connection of two wounded mates desperate for comfort, two lonely earthlings in the need of a helping hand in order to get through the night.

I'm sure you'll figure out the angles, Bob said.

Frank

Saturday mornings in Centennial Park. A bit too early and sometimes also chilly for my liking, with nature just about waking up; pretty much the same as me. We walk three rounds in a fast pace before we split, only to meet the following weekend again at the same place.

We — that's Frank, Joe and me. Like father, son and grandson, three generations set 25 years apart.

We talk all the way; U.S. mortgage crisis and the stock market volatility is the number one topic back in 2007. Sure, we may talk about arts, too. Photography, music, theatre. And sport. And history as well. Nevertheless, the state of the economy is always the prevailing theme of our seemingly perpetual agitated discussions.

Now, we've lost Frank. As fate would have it, I learned from Wikipedia, from the article I myself started.

Restart

Can I sleep at you place?, I asked her candidly a mere three weeks ago. Since, we grew closer again. I'll be in town on Wednesday, I message her a week later, if you don't mind my going to some business party, I'd love you to join. Quite the opposite, I'd love to see you, she responds.

We walk the dog swiftly and then drive to the party and park right in front of the nightclub, sort of Hollywood-like. No tickets are no problem and we get in without hassle. Free drinks, a buffet, casino-styled entertainment.

She's knocking the glasses of wine far faster then I can drink my water. Playing table football, dancing and laughing a lot before I lose her in a crowd. A bit tipsy, she's being chatted up by some local chap. Takes me a while to retake her and I decide it's better a time to go.

Speeding through the city, we only smile at each other once I stop. She hardly walks and I literally carry her home. She's hugging me, not letting go. Oh dear, I whisper. I have to go. Don't go, please, she's begging. Please, she keeps whispering. I'm going anyway.

I feel really sick, the message beeps before I get home. Speeding through the city the second time, I'm back at hers in ten minutes. Laying her down, I'm to go again, at least to the other room. Stay, stay with me, she mumbles.

I stay, making sure she's fine, trying not to jump to conclusions too quick. She's just got drunk, right? Right??!

I'm taking her for breakfast in the morning while she's amazed at herself: I can't believe I let you sleep in my bed; I never... —

— You're lovely; lovely even when you're wasted — I cut her short. She blushes and I know we are where we left last year. It's all cool again.

Forlorn

Business meeting held in a small town lost somewhere between France and Switzerland. Intermittent Internet connection, regular meals and lots of tea, coffee and snacks. There may be fifty of us around, mostly older than me. Managers, directors, you name them. Just few seem to be out of place as I am, others seem to love it. Hardly anyone wears a wedding ring, I noticed shortly and then just kept starring at people's fingers, obsessed, mesmerised.

Bonjour, monsieur. Bonsoir, monsieur. S'il vous plaît, monsieur.

They walk by and they nod nonchalantly and their suits seem to make them into a sort of weird mannequins they originally strived to be. Now they are. Flicking through their iPads, checking their Blackberries, playing buzzword bingo in a business lingo.

What kind of life is this? I could not see them walking around the lake or take photos of this sleepy spa town. And I'm stuck with them, too, without a possibility of parole. The shuttle will only arrive in three days.

Au revoir, monsieur. Bon voyage, monsieur.

I'm slightly melancholic as I'm watching the scenery when being driven to the airport. I'm glad when we take off. God forbid I'd ever become one of them.

Getting better

Sitting in the corner, watching the crowd. Friends, coworkers and a handful of girls I got to know slightly better. I'm watching them calmly, all those characters who have been shaping my life since I moved here four years ago.

— I'm feeling honoured being invited, — one of my colleagues tells me few minutes later. — I really am.

It's surprising but touching to hear and I'm glad they're having fun. They're blending together, many of them having never met each other before. I divide my time and speak to everybody, introducing folks when necessary. It's smooth.

— Can I sleep at your place? — It's hard to believe I'm asking this just a couple of weeks after I decided not to be visiting her anymore and kept refusing her invitations.

— Rather not. — She's firm and I know I should not argue. A kiss on the cheek and she's gone.

Still, somehow I feel much better than two weeks ago.

A week in the life

A friend of mine died last Sunday. I was only told on Monday and just could not get, could not comprehend it. My brightest recollection of the times we had? Sharing a joint in front of our corporate offices with a number of colleagues passing by. Very funny and daring back then. Very numbing now. Very, very numbing.

Monday, it was her birthday — and she asked me to come see her. I emailed her back, a bit harshly. Yeah, it could had been a hair softer, yet what would had been different? Nothing would had changed.

Went home and drove my ex in instead — to have someone to look after me. It was a primal need; calming, calming, calming.

Come Tuesday, I did not feel much better. Could not stop thinking about it. He was only 35. Fucking 35. One day he's here, the next one, click, he's gone. Fucking gone.

Wednesday. Meeting with a CEE lead of a major corporation, long miles away from home. Driving there and back; exhausted but happier. Happier — only 'cos exhausted. My ex is still at my place, still looking after me. I'm grateful. This time around, I can appreciate it.

Thursday. Difficult talks. There's few people who won't be working for us next month and they don't know yet. Plus a party in a posh hotel for a bunch of wannabe VIP clients in the evening. They get wasted, it's free. I talk, I laugh, I take the bill. And drive some of them home. Classic.

On Friday, I found out that my director is amongst those who got smashed. He misses a couple of morning meetings, comes in late and leaves early, being moody and slightly less articulate then usually. I split few minutes later, too.

Having a quick nap and meeting friends in a bar soon after. Off to a party shortly. Morgan, Morgan, and more Captain Morgan. I'm not drinking, just having a toast. Somebody is celebrating something. They all knew him, every single one of them. We used to party together but nobody utters a word, it's like a strange taboo. And his funeral was held earlier today. Tough, tough life.

Sleeping well past midday, then going through the shit at home, trashing a lot away. The less you have, the more you have. Things are not to be loved.

Saturday afternoon. A call from a friend. Join us for a dinner — our place at 8:00. Red or white? Get some red, I'm told.

Indian, ouzo, dubstep and two visiting Spanish girls who just flew in from Madrid. A nightclub. Then another. I'm a designated driver and I don't mind. This is a third night in a row, and the best one, too. Sipping water, smoking joints, dancing. Me, dancing; so unusual. Enjoying the night far more than I'd have hoped for.

Is this guy a foreigner? — a random chick asks me in a club, pointing to a friend who passed out on the sofa. Nah, he's a pure local, babe, I grin. She's no longer interested, walking away disappointed before I finish the sentence. Bitch.

It's a late morning, the sun is up. Talking to one of our girls when the music stops. We'll cook a Spanish dinner, you must come, she urges me seriously. Sure I will. Driving them home through the streets filling with shoppers and tourists, kissing her goodbye.

Dropping unconscious as soon as I reach my bed. Filled with weird feelings, mess, yet content. Bring it on, life; I adore you anyway.

Encore

For the most part, I'm holding him tight as he's acting unpredictably. Poor slob, I wonder what his fate would be once he loses his true home. I feel for him. She cannot manage anymore and he's to go. This may very well be the last time I'm walking him.

We're strolling silently along each other and I smile at her whenever our eyes meet. I don't wanna talk; I enjoy this somewhat unpleasant situation — enough was said and I grew tired of repeating myself over and over again. She'd talk — I see she'd talk — if only I started and made it slightly easier for her.

Her place. She's inviting me in, just for a minute, she begs. There's no pretension, not a bit, and I'm aware this is the hardest part. The parting part. Please, stay, she looks at me and my heartbeat skips. She's pushing, it's crystal clear she'd like to spend more time with me.

Few weeks ago, I'd do, too, I'd love to shut the door behind me, seize her and throw her on the bed, tearing off her clothes and doing it. Tonight, I don't even fantasise. Bye, I utter — and I'm gone. Gone to heal my wounds.

Out there

Tell me I'll never have to be out there again — that's what Harry's and Sally's sidekicks promise each other after they receive withdrawn phone calls from their respective friends.

It's easy to comprehend why people are ready to accept unacceptable. Fear. Fear of being left alone and forgotten is what drives all those thirty-somethings to act; suddenly willing to compromise and settle. Often settle for less. Fear of being passed by. Fear of unknown. The same drives people to stay in not-so-overly-happy relationships. Linger, linger, linger a bit more. I understand the concept very well. Just am not willing to follow and participate anymore.

She's still filling my thoughts, throughout. I cannot stop thinking about her. Yet even as we spent evenings walking together I kept contemplating.

Was this to be? Such a simple question and such uncertainty. Forget it, I had been told by everyone in the know. Things done cannot be undone, I've known her already too well and cannot take all those moments back. It's late, far too late. So much for forgetting.

OK. Cool. Hopefully just a half a year of cold turkey and I'll be fine.

Or at least slightly better.

Choices

Four — or maybe just three days left. And then I'm gone. Perhaps I won't stop — but still, it will feel great knowing I can. I have plans. There's places I'd go to. People I'd like to meet. Things I'd like to do.

However questionable my feats and thoughts may appear to be, often even to myself, life has become much simpler once I've realised it's only my choice to live it my way. And yeah, it is fun, no matter how difficult it seems.

Retreat

Based on a proper assumption and years of experience, I took a bus to a weekend retreat. The assumption was, of course, that I would not be able to get back in time, would I need to wait to regain senses, a.k.a. get sober enough to drive. The weekend retreat is, of course again, just an assumed alias for a drinking spree covered as a Christmas party. Imagine "Last Christmas" of Wham mischievous fame, sans mountains, cabin and cheesy eighties. Sans cheesy romantic, too. Basically, what you get is a bash with a number of single thirty-somethings, all ready to rock and roll.

Anyway — long story short — while it took me four hours to get to my destination, it only took me one and a half hour to get from greetings to bed. In the meantime, I managed to get totally hammered and throw up number of times in various places, which included obvious favourites of drunks: a toilet and a balcony. Bad, too bad indeed.

Woke up at 5 AM, just in time to scribble this post, have a glass of water and return home for lunch. By bus, naturally, as my original assumption was correct. Too correct.

Abyss

Spent the weekend shivering in bed. So did she, at the other side of the city. I was nursed by my ex, she was looked after by her boyfriend.

Almost a week later, I'm driving home late at night. I've been thinking ever since I got out of bed. And I have come to a conclusion, a very painful one: It leads nowhere. It makes me unhappy — in a weird, bizarre way — this love, it burns me from within, yet it's a cold, lifeless flame of inner numbness, of unreal expectations, of fruitless hope.

It hurts, getting so close and then stall. It's cruel, unfair, incomprehensible. And it's a drug, leaving me wanting more and more, falling deeper and deeper into the abyss of unrequited affection.

It leads nowhere, I must keep reminding myself.

Enough. Enough now.

Lenny Kravitz, Prague 15 November 2011

The great gig in the great company. The usual Lenny's set, no exceptions. And me, so brutally shaken by her glances and smiles. Tough, tough life.

Main Set: Come On Get It * Always On The Run * American Woman * It Ain't Over 'Til It's Over * Mr. Cab Driver * Black And White America * Fields Of Joy * Stand By My Woman * Believe * Stand * Rock And Roll Is Dead * Rock Star City Life * Where Are We Runnin' * Fly Away * Are You Gonna Go My Way

Encore: I Belong to You * Let Love Rule

Can't Get You Off My Mind

Speeding through the night, countryside flitting behind the windows, music filling the space. And my mind — helpless, flaccid mind — keeps staring numbly ahead. Insecure, fleeting glances are culminating into a full-blown mess that is taking its toll. Both literally and metaphorically.

Life is just a lonely highway
I'm out here on the open road
I'm old enough to see behind me
But young enough to feel my soul

Few days later, having a night out with friends. Waking up slightly dizzy, nevertheless great. Missing you, the display says. Please don't make it harder for me, I respond half asleep. And then quiet, somehow hurting. Falling asleep again before taking off to enjoy unbelievably sunny and warm November.

I've got a pocket full of money
And pocket full of keys that have no bounds
But then I think of lovin'
And I just can't get you off of my mind

This really is all wrong.

Mess

Bought the tickets for Lenny's gig and read Isaacson's book on Jobs over the weekend. Walked a lot. Hardly spoke to anybody. Calmness. Inner purity. Naivety? What was I thinking? This meant to be just the quiet before the storm.

Came to work too early on Monday morning and did not cool off for a single moment of the standard twelve hours. Barked a lot. Sent a full hundred of emails, some pretty harsh ones, too. Intense, restless day. Few swift meetings. Why do people talk bullshit to express simple ideas?

My hitched perplexed mind cannot stop wondering what is to come. I seldom feel so vulnerable, so naked. But maybe more so is she and it's me who fucked up. By even thinking about it.

I'll rip you apart — I'm being told fondly.

And I just keep wondering.

Shakespeare 2.0

Sans tragic ending, this would make a great love story with a twist: Juliet having balconies at two opposite sides of her bedroom — and while there's two troubadours, there can only be one Romeo.

And it is not me.

Addiction

7 AM and I'm back at work. Switching on the lights, making an early morning tea and flipping through business news. Deleting spam, answering emails, checking yesterday's figures. Looking at the empty yard below, sipping from the hot mug, meditating. I should get ready for a meeting.

Blink!

It's 7 PM and I'm still at work. Drinking an evening tea, slowing down. Regular dose of heart attacks, agitated discussions, heated phone calls, tireless explanations, meaningful or less-so meetings, emails sent and received, plus a good laugh, a good laugh above all, is coming to a close.

It's freaky but it's fun everyday.