Saturday, 3 September 2011

Exit. Chapter 9

Morning. Alarm. Mixes. All in a sick daily smell.

The brush of teeth. The cold water like a wake-up drug. Dressing up. Eating breakfast. Toast. Burnt toast. Second try. Butter. No, marmalade. Eat the butter one with a bitter thought. Leave no time for the marmalade to enjoy. Run to classes. Chew near the classroom. Know that I’m late. Get detention. Get freed from detention. Freed by unknown reason. Suspect that a new lover is mixed up somewhere. A cheap excuse of behavior. Think about how the poor dude must actually be like. End of first lesson.

Pass near the club lists.

See Leslie’s name in the acting club.

Damn memory. Sign up. Regret the whole day. Walk up twice to cross out the name. Realize that the love is strong. Skip art. Skip seeing Leslie. Regret the fact that cannot epically smoke in the banned area. Smoking area. With all cool kids. No, just nice people. Just expect them to be cool, but realize that they are nice. Just smokers. Come to the conclusion in the head. Freeze to death outside. The only heat coming from the iPod and headphones. Wonder if I’ll die from a new kind of freeze to death outside swine flu.

Wonder if swine flu is real. Remember BBC reports. Switch thoughts to global warming. Try to catch some signal. Get bored. Think about global warming more. Get bored. Decide that it may be bad. Decide that it may be a hoax. Argue about it. Realize that the argument took long. Three lessons. Bounce on fourth. Screw last lessons. Flood the head about global warming. Surf the internet about it. Love wi-fi. Dedicate lunchtime for global warming. Wonder if people ever spent so much time on it. Wonder if people care in general.

Decide. Come to a conclusion. Be proud of spending so much time about it. Get a project topic about it. Shrug and take it. Bump into Leslie. Smile. Blush. Have a whole movie about how romantic it is. The greet. In the head. Start conversation in head. Leslie answers or rather starts it aloud. Consume the fact. Leslie isn’t telepathic. Jonny is. Maybe the red head is.

Talk about daily stuff.

Find out that he likes Radiohead.

Be surprised.

Stop thinking like that.

“What?” Sound impolite.

“Um, yeah. Not my fave, but still, they’re nice.” Nice? Nice? Who can come up to Thom Yorke and say ‘dude, you’re music is nice?’ Shrug. Grin like an idiot. Chat about favorite songs. Get an invitation. Decline. Wonder if the thoughts leaked out. Hesitate. Realize that reality is getting cheesy. Be proud of it.


Sometimes you get dreams. The ones when you wake up and say what the fuck? But usually it ends with curling into a ball, smiling, as if the tingle now was real. They are stupid, unreal and suddenly the whole story behind cheesy love stories is easily explained. Dreams.

Nothing is ever cheesier.

What is absurd that in the dreams it’s like that theory about the afterlife. You die, get another life, but your soul is kept. In dreams you end up being with the same body, not always. Once I was a robot. I had my tuque, thought, but that’s another story.

I saw him there.

It was as if all the cheesiness of the world gathered together in that one dream, exploding in it and on our faces.

Dark blue. A heavy contrast to his red hair, as we ran somewhere, as I can’t remember.

In dreams everything is in a deep blur. Everything is highly primitive making the weirdest things possible, like some sort of bad written fiction. As if he’d appear with a gun, close one eye and shoot, ruining the whole quiet morning. He divided it in half. Later.

A blow to make the smoke go away.

A tight dress, revealing the curves, which I apparently do not have and constant biting lips, which are heavily painted red. My hair is down, my face looking like a mannequin, trying to fake what an ideal female should look like.

It reminds some sort of gangster film with both us ending either with a passionate kiss as the credits would roll or either one of us dead, as the other holds the breathless body, eyes full of that thing which makes actors cry.

Thankfully, that was not my dream. Or maybe it was. I had it in my head as my eyes lay closed, trying to recall or either forget the dream I had.

Dark blue coat. Running.

I was in my usual attire, but one sleeve rolled up, revealing just several scribbles as he held onto that hand. Did I have a small pink with flowers umbrella? Did he laugh?


Then we stopped, as we both gasped for air. He tilted his head from behind the corner, looking around. Who was chasing us? Nobody. Then he shrugged, leaning against the wall. My umbrella was gone, maybe closed, maybe in my hand, maybe I lost it on the way.

I don’t know.

It’s like those stupid moments when a guy has an amazingly dumb face, which stares at you in a rather intense ‘I am going to kiss you way’ and you hesitate. You know it happens.

It doesn’t.
Is it a sign?

But there was no wait like that. There was a quick glance to the corner and the next thing I now he captures my lips. Just like that. It’s long. Pleasurable. Intense. I remember it. There is no hesitation, no stupid dumbstruck face and it happens again.

He pulls back, glancing at me briefly, before kissing my cheek. He stretches out his hand. I take it. We walk on. Lace fingers.

Chapter 10

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