Sunday, 26 June 2011

Exit. Chapter 6

He beams at me, taking out his player. He puts on a headphone, but then hesitates and puts it back into his pocket turning it off, looking at me for a second as I realize how intense my stare must be. I apologize and look down, wondering if the wires of my player are mine or not, if someone had eaten the rest as if they were toys which are meant to be destroyed or eaten or puked out. Because all of a sudden they feel foreign and useless. Sell me, baby. I can feel Jonny digging his fingers deeper into my neck, my scalp, leaning nearly pressing his mouth against my ear, whispering slowly and hinting it with his warning look. Fuck me, now. Take me away before I vomit on the reality I’m given.

“Return back to reality.” By reality he means to his, where we have two kids, waiting at home, fame, royalty, no paparazzi, chickens waking us up at three am and giving eggs to neighbors as a sign of apology due to their singing which don’t seem like a chart breaker. I look at him, seeing his worry, both his and mine. It’s ours, we’re a couple. He’d seen this before, back when I met Leslie, thinking that he was Graham. Only this time there is the risk of feeling the sweet sour taste of hope mixing with the taste of reality hiding the bitterness. He sighs and presses his lips against my forehead, hearing the bell, which brings me, Leslie and Jonny back to the other reality where sadly, at least for five minutes you must pay attention, as the art task is given. Or rather the task is given in life, not always said aloud, sometimes to be found out but given some time. A life span actually, if to speak correctly. A life span to find the meaning of life for yourself not to wonder in the afterlife, tilting your head with the salty question upon the lips.

And you’ll talk bullshit called the previous paragraph in your mind or mind book, utter fuckery.

“What did I live for?”

“Can I go back?”

“What is the meaning of life?”

I sat on the edge of my chair, drawing scribbles in the corner of the page not bothering the task I shall never know know because I spent the second on something needed.

What if he remembered me and tried to see how moronic in life was I? How weird I looked in my hand, rubber, living rubber, pulling my sleeves as if I was a druggie or sick and I was desperately hiding the traces of injections?

We briefly talked as I watched him as he kept erasing all the time, leaning his face nearly against the paper in concentration. I peeked clearly expecting his art skills higher, but he failed my expectations.

Life does.

Go fuck yourself if you think otherwise, I’d shoot you.

He wasn’t Graham, who loved drawing,

holding grapes,

peaches or other fruits.

He was Leslie who was open, friendly, smiling and laughed leaning his head down, with his hands in his pockets, fixing his glasses before they could slip down with his left index finger.

That was all I knew and I wanted to know more. But I never even dared to open my mouth to ask him, to start a conversation, knowing that the image I had drawn of Graham was nothing compared to the laughing Leslie sitting beside me.


I muted the world. Just like that.

I ignored my roommate who attempted to ask me if I was ok.

Was it a dream?

I was feeling Jonny’s fingertips upon my jaw line tracing back and forth, driving a sane person insane.

Maybe I just faked it? The way he’d smile after a while, the way he said his name was Leslie. He couldn’t be interested in the scribbles up to my elbows or the bright fuchsia steaks under my tuque or- or-

Jonny hiding in my closet from while to while? Like a secret lover, as if I had a husband. Suddenly it felt like it I felt as if I was cheating on Jonny, Graham and Leslie all at once.

Who was the plain flirt? Who was the husband? Who was the lover? Who had I loved with all my soul, so was the one behind it all? But then I could hold all three, all three making us four…making an exit in my mind, like Marcie had called it.

Only the difference in it was that I had that exit in my head all along why would I search for it for the rest of my life? It was staring right back at me.

I think people who search for it are useless, greedy, cruel wanting for life something else not bearing the fact and possibility of doing those colours by themselves. That’s why both Marcie and Evan wanted that exit. How cruel.

How human.

I was saying that as if I was some other species, like a Time Lord occasionally amazed by the foolishness of humans. But then was it like me? I never bothered by searching all I did was mute out everything, grasp Greenwood’s hand and that was it, my exit.

Did I want another?

I blinked, hesitating for a while. So human. Wanting more. I closed my eyes pulling the covers, calling my day a dream as in no way Graham was Leslie and could possibly talk to me. It was too surreal to be true.

So it was definitely a creation, like the so-called exit, only in my head. How poetic, an exit from reality. I smiled, feeling my eyes go heavy. Who doesn’t do that even for a brief second?
Why would something have a name like that, even if it existed which I was sure of did not?


Basically the day begins with several blinks and a flood of ripped memories popping the head, why do

people drink to have a heavier blur in the mornings when the blur still appears? Or rather the blur is

caused by the dream which shows a corrupted reality either a fat version of yourself dancing on stage,

making-out with some guy who you barely know and end up marrying in the dream or something resembling the failure of tomorrow’s test. Basically nothing good happens in dreams.

I don’t get married to Leslie or Jonny. Sometimes there are glimpses of them, but nothing more no gooey romantic story resembling my day dreams or including some hidden before facts revealed in the latest interview or an old back from the 90’s. Sometimes I get so desperate that I end up seeing him and I run up to him, make a fool out of myself while he stares at his Converse.

Does he even wear Converse?

I believe he actually does.

He doesn’t resemble the portrait I have of him in my dream.

Would I like him in real life?

Would he dump everything for a rabid sixteen year old fangirl, who knows all the latest gossip
about him.

I doubt it.

I get up, basically grabbing my muting device even for the bathroom, to mute every possibility of somebody interrupting my thoughts. I have to take them off as I wash my face and do every regular thing no matter girl or boy must do, no matter little or not. I take off my hat, knowing that at this early time no was here anyway asides somebody rubbing their eyes maybe from the heavy hangover or just from the ‘why did my alarm turn on so early’? I don’t even look if guys actually strode into the bathroom, which happens from while to while. In boxers? Rarely. Usually they stare at me before either taking a stall or going down to their own floor, in their boxers.
So I make no move when a red haired guy walks in.

He seems pretty woken up.

Chapter 7

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