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Sad Cilli Willi · 06-23-2007, 01:12 AM

My barbarian friend and I spend most of our lazy summer evenings on a bench in front of the National Theatre, breathing in the sweet scent of tulips and daffodils, and other colourful herbs. It's always the same. She complains, I nod sympathetically so she wouldn't notice I didn't listen. Always the same.

Suddenly, textures of a silhouette sharpen within the domain of my blurred stare and I notice a bipedal vertebrate, an exceptionally svelte male striding confidently right across those cherished plants. Towards us. And I sit up straight and focus on fully distinguishing the form arising from the twillight.

Alerted by the sudden interruption of our routine, the despot stops talking and traces my stare. We gaze in silence as he approaches us, and with each step we absorb more of his oddity. Dressed in a strange pearly white attire, with field flowers in his golden locks, the young patrician glides past us like an apparition.

She feels like a reality check.
"You are not allowed to walk on the flowers." she addresses him in her misplaced prosaic, correctional way.
He turns around in a single fluid motion and replies complacently,
"No. You are not allowed to walk on the flowers."

"He has a point there.", I carelessly utter contemplating out loud as we watch him disappear in the dark hallway of the National Theatre.
"What do you mean??", the cannibal next to me protrudes and I retreat.
"Nothing really", I say apologetically until she drops the matter.

Sad Cilli Willi · 06-30-2007, 04:01 AM

The second date; I only had to wait for 55 days. I'm used to waiting most of my life.

"But after years of waiting, nothing came."

And nothing it is. The second date wasn't really a date, since I'd learnt a few days before that he hadn't fancied me enough to decide whether he'd like to date me or keep me as a friend. Or move away. Or do anything at all.

"I'm sorry. You are great, but... I don't know what to tell you." he replied to my straightforward question about what was the deal between us.
"But we can see where it takes us", he goes and I know immediately the only place it could take us is a dead end, but somehow, with no valid reason, I'm playing along.

Oddly enough - or not?, hearing it out loud at last, after 55 days of not knowing, it feels like a weight off both of our shouders.
He feels courageous enough to suggest we should meet up for a drink on Friday.

There's a gig by a guy neither of us has ever heard of before. Willing to go? Sure, why not?

We meet at the bar in the lobby. I'm a little late, as usual, and there's already a shot of vodka waiting for me. Good. He remembers.

We engage in a conversation just as fluent as the one 55 days ago. He's a cheerful sort of guy, and his resonating laugh is infectious.
I smile. Sarcasm is my faithful companion even when I'm as disoriented as I am now. He laughs at my sharp but blatantly faux self-deprecation, but I occasionally throw in a few zen wisdoms just to show I'm more than a clown, to which he nods thoughtfully.
Men. They're so easy to entertain.

His friends stroll by us, stopping to say hello, eyeing me curiously.
"The gig's about to start", one of them says, "are you coming?"
We glance at each other silently.
"We'll join you a little later", he goes.
The guy grins and walks away.

Almost an hour later we're still pouring drinks and talking, though we've changed positions from the bar to the table in the corner (sounds way more Kama Sutra than it unfortunately was).

He sits down first, and I choose to sit opposite to him, the negotiating position. I can actually see a question mark in his eyes. He was expecting me to pull my chair next to him. But I smile and stay put.

I continue with the 'dancing monkey meets a renaissance woman' routine, nicely delivered by vodka, but believe it or not, he talks just as much, and entertains me just as well.

His friends suddenly sneak from behind his shoulders like rain clouds blocking the sun and we realize there's a break.
"The guy's great", the cursed intruders burst in delight, "you have to see him!"
He looks at me and again I can see a question mark in his azure eyes. I shrug and fake enthusiasm, "sure, lets go!"

The guy really is alright, nothing special music-wise, just another singer/songwriter, but he does have a certain childishly bohemian charm and passion.

But in the dark of the scarcely populated venue I can occasionally feel his eyes gliding down the back of my neck. (Not the singer's eyes, of course.) I pretend not to have noticed, but his gaze makes me feel surreal. I can't hear poor Ken stroking his guitar anymore, I can't see anything, and I'm afraid to look at him. All I'm aware of are heartbeats in my throat and his eyes leaving a blazing trace on my neck and shoulders.

It's over in about half an hour, time to go. The bar in the lobby is closed, at 1 a.m. there aren't any pubs open in this god forsaken town, and on a Friday night clubs are filled with teenagers on their first passout drunkfest. His friends suggest a party about 15 minutes on foot from here. "Wanna go?" he asks. "Yeah, why not?" I say, planning to steal a few extra moments of his time.

But as it usually happens when the universe conspires against all my plans, the moment we set foot outside is the moment we face the nature's late and completely unexpected reaction to winter.
A true blizzard is in progress and a shamelessly cold wind nibbles at my bones. I couldn't have dressed more inappropriately. A light shirt and an even lighter jacket are my first, last and only line of defense against the climate's menopausal whim - I'm destined to fall as collateral damage. Because who would've thought earlier that day the temperature would drop 20 degrees.

I also do not find the thought about both of us being car-less tonight very comforting.

"You know what?" I whisper with my lips barely moving. "I think I ought to go home. I can't walk through the city like this."

He looks at me and nods in a slightly concerned way.
"Ah yes, it would be the best. Are you going to wait for the bus?"
"Yes. Of course, you should go with your friends if you're still up for it, I can manage on my own, believe me."
"Hm, no." he goes. "I better go home as well, gonna wait for the bus with you." (My direction - far north, his - far west.)

We're trying to hold a conversation, which is rather difficult since I'm rapidly becoming a stalagmite before his very eyes. So he puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me closer in a tight embrace to share his jacket with me.

My face buried in his chest is nearly painfully ablaze, although it looks whiter than the snow we're almost up to our knees in. Every time he moves his hand on my back I feel like he's burning another hole through my skin. I can't take it anymore, because I know he doesn't mean it, none of this means anything, and he's actually uncomfortable with touching me, but he feels like he ought to do it.
So I break free.

"Thanks", I smile. "It helped."

More question marks in his eyes.

"It would be so easy to like you", he says with a sigh and a regretful look.

"Life's only easy if you're cheating at it, isn't it?" I grin and turn away so he wouldn't see the look in my eyes.

06-23-2007, 01:12 AM	#1 (permalink)
Sad Cilli Willi Upright	I sometimes like to write My barbarian friend and I spend most of our lazy summer evenings on a bench in front of the National Theatre, breathing in the sweet scent of tulips and daffodils, and other colourful herbs. It's always the same. She complains, I nod sympathetically so she wouldn't notice I didn't listen. Always the same. Suddenly, textures of a silhouette sharpen within the domain of my blurred stare and I notice a bipedal vertebrate, an exceptionally svelte male striding confidently right across those cherished plants. Towards us. And I sit up straight and focus on fully distinguishing the form arising from the twillight. Alerted by the sudden interruption of our routine, the despot stops talking and traces my stare. We gaze in silence as he approaches us, and with each step we absorb more of his oddity. Dressed in a strange pearly white attire, with field flowers in his golden locks, the young patrician glides past us like an apparition. She feels like a reality check. "You are not allowed to walk on the flowers." she addresses him in her misplaced prosaic, correctional way. He turns around in a single fluid motion and replies complacently, "No. You are not allowed to walk on the flowers." "He has a point there.", I carelessly utter contemplating out loud as we watch him disappear in the dark hallway of the National Theatre. "What do you mean??", the cannibal next to me protrudes and I retreat. "Nothing really", I say apologetically until she drops the matter.

06-30-2007, 04:01 AM	#2 (permalink)
Sad Cilli Willi Upright	The second date; I only had to wait for 55 days. I'm used to waiting most of my life. "But after years of waiting, nothing came." And nothing it is. The second date wasn't really a date, since I'd learnt a few days before that he hadn't fancied me enough to decide whether he'd like to date me or keep me as a friend. Or move away. Or do anything at all. "I'm sorry. You are great, but... I don't know what to tell you." he replied to my straightforward question about what was the deal between us. "But we can see where it takes us", he goes and I know immediately the only place it could take us is a dead end, but somehow, with no valid reason, I'm playing along. Oddly enough - or not?, hearing it out loud at last, after 55 days of not knowing, it feels like a weight off both of our shouders. He feels courageous enough to suggest we should meet up for a drink on Friday. There's a gig by a guy neither of us has ever heard of before. Willing to go? Sure, why not? We meet at the bar in the lobby. I'm a little late, as usual, and there's already a shot of vodka waiting for me. Good. He remembers. We engage in a conversation just as fluent as the one 55 days ago. He's a cheerful sort of guy, and his resonating laugh is infectious. I smile. Sarcasm is my faithful companion even when I'm as disoriented as I am now. He laughs at my sharp but blatantly faux self-deprecation, but I occasionally throw in a few zen wisdoms just to show I'm more than a clown, to which he nods thoughtfully. Men. They're so easy to entertain. His friends stroll by us, stopping to say hello, eyeing me curiously. "The gig's about to start", one of them says, "are you coming?" We glance at each other silently. "We'll join you a little later", he goes. The guy grins and walks away. Almost an hour later we're still pouring drinks and talking, though we've changed positions from the bar to the table in the corner (sounds way more Kama Sutra than it unfortunately was). He sits down first, and I choose to sit opposite to him, the negotiating position. I can actually see a question mark in his eyes. He was expecting me to pull my chair next to him. But I smile and stay put. I continue with the 'dancing monkey meets a renaissance woman' routine, nicely delivered by vodka, but believe it or not, he talks just as much, and entertains me just as well. His friends suddenly sneak from behind his shoulders like rain clouds blocking the sun and we realize there's a break. "The guy's great", the cursed intruders burst in delight, "you have to see him!" He looks at me and again I can see a question mark in his azure eyes. I shrug and fake enthusiasm, "sure, lets go!" The guy really is alright, nothing special music-wise, just another singer/songwriter, but he does have a certain childishly bohemian charm and passion. But in the dark of the scarcely populated venue I can occasionally feel his eyes gliding down the back of my neck. (Not the singer's eyes, of course.) I pretend not to have noticed, but his gaze makes me feel surreal. I can't hear poor Ken stroking his guitar anymore, I can't see anything, and I'm afraid to look at him. All I'm aware of are heartbeats in my throat and his eyes leaving a blazing trace on my neck and shoulders. It's over in about half an hour, time to go. The bar in the lobby is closed, at 1 a.m. there aren't any pubs open in this god forsaken town, and on a Friday night clubs are filled with teenagers on their first passout drunkfest. His friends suggest a party about 15 minutes on foot from here. "Wanna go?" he asks. "Yeah, why not?" I say, planning to steal a few extra moments of his time. But as it usually happens when the universe conspires against all my plans, the moment we set foot outside is the moment we face the nature's late and completely unexpected reaction to winter. A true blizzard is in progress and a shamelessly cold wind nibbles at my bones. I couldn't have dressed more inappropriately. A light shirt and an even lighter jacket are my first, last and only line of defense against the climate's menopausal whim - I'm destined to fall as collateral damage. Because who would've thought earlier that day the temperature would drop 20 degrees. I also do not find the thought about both of us being car-less tonight very comforting. "You know what?" I whisper with my lips barely moving. "I think I ought to go home. I can't walk through the city like this." He looks at me and nods in a slightly concerned way. "Ah yes, it would be the best. Are you going to wait for the bus?" "Yes. Of course, you should go with your friends if you're still up for it, I can manage on my own, believe me." "Hm, no." he goes. "I better go home as well, gonna wait for the bus with you." (My direction - far north, his - far west.) We're trying to hold a conversation, which is rather difficult since I'm rapidly becoming a stalagmite before his very eyes. So he puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me closer in a tight embrace to share his jacket with me. My face buried in his chest is nearly painfully ablaze, although it looks whiter than the snow we're almost up to our knees in. Every time he moves his hand on my back I feel like he's burning another hole through my skin. I can't take it anymore, because I know he doesn't mean it, none of this means anything, and he's actually uncomfortable with touching me, but he feels like he ought to do it. So I break free. "Thanks", I smile. "It helped." More question marks in his eyes. "It would be so easy to like you", he says with a sigh and a regretful look. "Life's only easy if you're cheating at it, isn't it?" I grin and turn away so he wouldn't see the look in my eyes.