You come late. You recognize this as a fact, so natural to you, with the occasional laugh that melts me. You don’t apologize, mostly because you know I hate the concept. You came because I asked you; you came like you always do when I ask you.

You are all dressed up, as usual, but with that small detail in disarray that makes you so unique. You start talking almost instantly. About you, your week, about bad things and better ones. You always talk too much, and always too fast. Some might not like that in you, but it distracts me, it carries me to your special world, so much richer than mine. You talk too much, without even noticing I’ve been crying. Or, if you have, you choose not to comment.

You ask me if I’m happy. You are always direct and that intimidates me. I don’t like to talk about me. You decide to change the question, and ask me how I am. I shrug my shoulders. You don’t seem to be affected by my silence and carry on. I light a cigarette, just to listen carefully to your monologue. You forgot to ask for the coffee and I do it for you. The cup must be filled and the coffee very hot, I know that well.

“Do you like my hair?” I respond with a yes, though I have not noticed yet. It’s shorter, fresher. You smell good. Cinammon mixed with fresh flowers. The coffee arrives and you steal me one cigarette. You smoke whenever you drink coffee, while insisting that you stop smoking. I think you shouldn’t, you are so attractive when you do it.

You notice my black moleskine, under my wrists. I think you had noticed it before, right when you sat in front of me. You catch me distracted and you grab it. You browse it like a magazine, without looking at me, knowing I’m nervous whenever you do that. But curiosity gets the better.

You make small talk about some random thoughts, but you get no answer back. I have no answers to give you. Answers require decisions and, at this moment, I’m not able to do that.

You reach the last page and close the notebook. You return it to me and, for the first time, look into my eyes. You ask, without previous notice: “Have you lost the will to live?” I answer it negatively. Well, actually I don’t know what to answer.

You grab your wallet, always full, and start searching for something. “This is my yellow book”. I grab it, mixing reluctance with profound curiosity. I open it, and realize you too write for a deposit, hoping to have something to grab to. I digress for a while just to watch your handwriting carefully, always inclined to the left side. I read some sentences, focusing on the music in some of the words. “It is my exorcism. I dump it, without even thinking about the content. I imprison the words, without even trying to give them a meaning. Also you should try."

You go as fast as you came. You never stay longer than needed, just the necessary to turn my life upside down. I stand there, lonely, feeling homesick. That yellow little book of yours disturbed me. Its power of absorption, like a sponge over your concealed suffering. I want to have one, as well.

I get home and turn on the computer. I’m ready to write this story. What happened to me, what binds me to your flesh, intrinsically, the words that came out of your mouth. I love your mouth. I enter my blog, without even noticing. It has become a habit.

I read my last posts, without paying attention. I don’t consider them extremely good, but they’re not bad as well. They represent me. My blog is, in fact, my exorcism, my much-needed process of catharsis. My yellow book.

1 comment:

  1. is my onion bad? it has a green center... and it has lots of skins...