I've Made You Common

The location they had chosen to meet in was inappropriate. The people who were gathering around the terrace wore hats and drank German beer instead of cocktails. Inside, the music was pumping away happily, creating an up-and-coming and very hip atmosphere. You wanted to feel young, to feel modern again? You dressed like these people and drank beer outside.
He knew that she still loved him, with a passion, like she used to. There was no reason to consider the far away possibility of a change in her.
But when he saw her again, sitting at one of the tables across from the coloured bar, something was different. But what?
They greeted each other with a sense of honouring their memories together, but there was a distinct coldness to her touch, her words, spoken as if they were formed of boredom.
She interrupted him and spat her words out with a calm collection. She was together, as the words that could have destroyed a man fell from her lips.
"I lied to myself when I told you that no one had kissed me like you did. I lied to myself and then to you. Many before you have kissed me like that and many after you will. When I drew you as unique in my mind, I was hallucinating. You are as common as the rest of them, like all the ones I've had before you and the ones that will come once you're gone. The only thing that I can still remember as exclusively yours and mine, is our beginning. The way it made me feel to be with you, to hear you and feel you. But then that was broken and I became used to it, as did you. It was beautiful and it remained so until this ended. Until we killed it."
He opened his mouth to speak, his eyes glazed over with the harshness of her tongue.
She continued without hesitation, cutting through him and his forming thoughts.
"But I can make you common. I have made you as common as they come, like all the others. I took what was ours, what we shared and had the same with others. I recreated our stolen moments and shared them without wasting another thought towards you. So now they're not you and me, they'll never be you and me again. You are just one of the people with whom I had moments, experiences like these. And for that, I won't even be grateful. Why should I, since you are just one of many and not the one and only?
You are no longer unique and singular to me.
I've dragged you from your throne of memories in my head and I've dragged you through the mud. I've made you common."

C'est fini.

A Further Invitation, With Love From Fate (Who is Kip?)

"The shipment is landing in less than an hour," Achilles murmured. Kip looked at him, faking understanding and concern. "Do you want me to go?" he eventually asked, looking at the floor. Say no.
"No. They get spooked by people they don't know. They'll put you in a cobra cage before you even explain what's happened, who you are and why you're there in my stead." Achilles shook his head.
What on earth was a cobra cage?
Before Kip could ask, Achilles swore quietly under his breath.
"I can't leave her. But I can't let anyone else go to the airport either. Fuck. FUCK."
Kip shifted from one foot to the next. Achilles' shoulders slumped and he let himself slide to the floor of the dark corridor. The only source of light was coming from the slight opening to the bathroom.
"I told Lara I'd stay with her."
Kip ran a hand through his hair, before remembering that it has gone. His buzz cut didn't agree with his hands. But it made him feel like part of the group. He swallowed hard, then..
"I can do it."
Achilles looked up.
"I can look after her."
Achilles didn't reply.
"I've done this sort of work before you know." Kip lied, but Achilles wasn't paying attention. His eyes had wandered to the bathroom door.
"You can trust me."
And there it was.
Achilles stood up, straightened his dinner jacket and gave Kip a quick nod. He gestured to the door and wasted one more quick look in the other man's direction.
They walked those five steps to the door as if they were going to their hanging. Kip could feel how sickened Achilles was by the idea of leaving Lara in the care of someone else, especially after what she had tried to do. And he was always the one who stayed with her during her cleansing bath, the one who would gently exfoliate her shoulders and make sure her hair didn't get wet. He wasn't the only one to have seen her in all her naked glory, but he had known Alice and Arthur for years. Kip was new.
But was he trustworthy? Achilles wondered. He's wrong for this.
Achilles had no time to elaborate on the thought. The seed of doubt was always going to be there.
Lara had her back to the door. She didn't move when the two men walked in, Kip respectfully staying behind Achilles who ducked down close to her, to give a brief explanation of where he was going and why. She didn't look at him once.
Achilles stood up and sighed. He turned to walk out, but stopped when he was shoulder to shoulder with Kip.
"Let some more hot water in the tub in about ten, fifteen minutes. Make sure she isn't cold. You have to know when, she certainly isn't going to tell you. Pour some more of that Moroccan oil on her shoulders when she turns around." He seemed to become increasingly uncomfortable. "When she wants out, you hold the towel open for her and look the other way. I find out you -" He stopped and composed himself. "That you saw her, and I'll put you in a cobra cage myself." And with one long, wistful look at Lara's soapy, naked back, he walked away.
Lara turned around. Her chest was covered in bath foam, so there was no risk of Kip seeing any part of her she didn't want him to see. That's the problem, he thought. He edged closer to her, grabbed a sponge and knelt before her. He tried to not look into her eyes while he gently dabbed around them to get the layers of dark eye shadow off her cheeks. She lingered, her lips slightly parting when the sponge moved from one side of her face to the other.
She caught his gaze. Kip froze. Her eyes had all the sorrow in the world mixed in a pool of icy blue.
"I need you" they said, pleading with him.
But before he said "fuck it" and hurled himself into the cobra cage, Lara pulled away. In one swift and practised, sudden and unexpected movement, the possibility of having her right then and there was gone, ripped from his world. He fell on his backside and crawled to the wall opposite the bathtub. He turned towards her but kept his eyes on the foam.
She didn't notice and she didn't care.
He was out of her cruel mind already.

An Invitation, With Love From Fate

The streets of London were bustling with tired co-workers making their way to the nearest pub to drown their sorrows, groups of tourists that had preferred the late afternoon tours through the capital and teenagers shouting abuse at each other. The young man taking in the last drag of his Camel cigarette was leaning against a shop window and shaking his head at the world in front of him. Would London always be like this, he wondered as a red-faced Swiss couple with a shrieking toddler moved past him. Is that what I’m going to become in ten, fifteen years’ time?

He chucked the cigarette stub in the air, missing the nearby bin by a mere centimetre. He huffed, walked over and picked it up from the ground. Something caught his eye. He disposed of the finished cigarette in one smooth movement and shifted closer to the small black, green and golden ticket poking out from underneath a dirty cardboard box.

It read “K. Midnight” on one side and had an address scribbled by hand on the other. The elaborate design around the writing in the middle suggested that it was some sort of invitation or reminder for an elite party, some place the young man would never dream of going. He gently lifted the box, pulling out the card and without thinking twice, putting it in his pocket. It had been the most dangerous thing he had done all day.

The journey home was taking longer than expected, but Alice and Arthur didn’t mind. The gentle rocking of the train was casting a delicate bubble of calm over both of them. Everything had been organised to welcome the new arrival at midnight the next day. It would be at their usual place, the hidden warehouse off the motorway, a place so desolate no one would ever dream of coming to look for any of them there.

Arthur’s head dropped slightly. He had fallen asleep. Alice tilted him towards her so that he wouldn’t rest against anyone else. They wouldn’t thank him for it.

Everything had been prepared. Everything was going to be fine. More than fine, it would be perfect.

Lara turned in Achilles’ arms. The absinthe had long lost its power of joy over her and she had sunken into a deep sleep on one of the sofas in the warehouse. The fact that she hadn’t left with anyone by that time meant that for once, she wanted to spend the night at home. Achilles paid the cab driver, grabbed the black crocodile bag and heaved her out of the car. They were alone on the quiet street once the taxi had disappeared into the night. Achilles turned towards the old Georgian house and began walking towards its long, pointy gate. He opened it with a firm push of his body weight and slipped through. Walking swiftly through the garden, he noticed that the watch dogs had been fed recently, which to him made no sense. It must have been just after three. Clearly no one was expecting intruders tonight.

As Achilles stopped on the porch, Lara’s head rolled back, tilting away from him. Her pale face was illuminated by the candles burning from inside the house, shadows playing a game of fire on her. He sighed as he began looking for her keys.

At Night, In the Dark

(Inspired by Edward Hopper's Nighthawks)

The coffee stings my tongue. It's four in the morning and the city has deserted me.
Can you feel me, thinking of you?
The old man looks to me, questioning what I'm doing here, in my elegant evening gown. My hair is still made up, my make up is heavy and has not faded yet. I look like I did when saw him for the last time, when I saw you for the last time. You wore that uniform so very proudly.
The drunk man sitting opposite me burps. He smiles to his ghosts, but not at me. Do I hate him for it? Perhaps I should. I'm the only woman here, and this bastard has not deigned to look at me once.
In swans a man with a crooked nose. He's too relaxed, too sure of himself. He comes and stands behind me. I can hear him lighting a cigarette. He does not offer me one when he takes the seat next to mine. I do not gaze at him like I should.
I need you, my eyes should say.
Take me away, my lips should say.
I look at my nails. Someone is playing some part or other of Chopin's Nocturnes.
The man leans in closer, but still does not speak. He rests his hand on my thigh. I do not look at him. Can I encourage him with stillness, hatred even? How dare he touch me. And you're not here.
He is the only man alive for miles and miles. The only man who has so much as looked at me in months. I'm powerless.
The old and the drunk exchange a few murmurs, then a few sniggers. They make me sick to the stomach and I want to leave. I do not. I sit there with my unwanted companion, waiting.
He seems to have all the time in the world. If I let him love me tonight, will you come back to me after all? Or will you be disgusted and distracted and die in some horrible way because your mind was elsewhere, on me?
On how we were together?
This man's nose intimidates me. He wears it with pride. Maybe it was you who punched it until it was broken. Maybe you knew that I would not last long in this brutal and cruel world, not without you. My protector and knight in shining armour.
But where are you now?
Is it many miles away or are you hiding somewhere near?
Will I see you if I turn around?
The man speaks. He tells me about desire, his desire for me. He tells me things I used to hear you say. He tells me that we'll all be gone tomorrow and that this is the last night on earth. I wanna be yours, he whispers. I can hear the words, but I hear nothing else. It is as if there was no humanity left in him. He too had loved and lost. And perhaps his love is spying on us now, plotting to kill us after we have given in to each other.
How and when will I know where you are?
He strokes the velvet on my dress and compliments it.
The other man has gone silent. He stares into the darkness of the diner, at his hands. Has he murdered, I wonder.
My hand moves closer to this man with the crooked nose. He sees it, but does not move. He thinks this is a game of want and wanting, of prolonged desire.
Poor fool.
No more nights like these, I beg you. We will never go out at night, not in the cold and not in the warm.
We'll stay together, in our little bubble, as if there was no tomorrow.
No yesterday, no today and no tomorrow.

Smoker's Stern Warning

Normally she would just wrap herself in one of her many silk kimonos, slip on the matching house slippers and give her short curls a quick brush. But this was one of those occasions. He needed another little nudge to do the right thing, so she had to be immaculate. She had to remind him who they were.
As she walked into the library, the first thing she noticed was the strong scent of cigar. He had picked up that habit again then.
He turned around to greet her, a slick smile on his young, handsome face.
You must tell her the old woman said after the usual pleasantries. She deserves to know.
Her smoker's voice was one the young man knew all too well. It had taught him all he knew and more.
Thus, he nodded unenthusiastically and lit another cigar. His lips curled and deigned him an air of superiority, an air that had come with his inheritance.
The old woman touched the ruby at her neck. Usually she would drape herself in diamonds, but this was not one of those occasions. He needed a stern warning.
If you're going to drop her, she needs to know straight away. She needs to plan her next move and get away from here as soon as it is possible for her. The scandal won't wait. She did not avert her eyes from him, while his were glued to the cigar.
She watched him linger out the moments before he had to give a proper answer. He had her brother's long, elegant nose and her sister-in-law's smile. The eyes were her father's. Cold as ice and full of malice. The kind of malice that attracts and destroys. And he would destroy his latest prey before the evening was out. Everyone would know and she would die inside. He would live again, refreshed, like a vampire after having fed on virgin's blood. Beautiful as ever.
No one in the family must know. They would demand a marriage of you. They know of her wealth and they would not allow you to let this opportunity fall at your feet and be kicked away, she croaked.
Yes dear aunt. He raised his champagne glass and toasted to his ingenious plan, of which his beloved aunt would know nothing until he had executed it. He would keep the wealth and leave the woman. No one who had ever attempted such a thing lived to tell the tale.
He noticed her long, silky skirt and her white, cold blouse. The only thing that was breathing life into her was the ruby. A strange choice for an afternoon spent at home, with family.

Lace and Tea In The Afternoon

It was one of those beautiful, yet instantly forgettable days.
The girls were wearing white lace and chiffon, running barefoot on the freshly mowed grass. The boys were playing a ridiculous game of cricket, each one of them displaying no talent at all. Of course, they pretended to excel, like with everything else.
The lord and lady of the house had gone for a long ride through their many fields. He had briefly remarked that he wanted to check on the constructions of the new foundry in the next town, whilst she wanted to buy some new ribbons for the girls. The lady liked to make these kinds of purchases herself, instead of sending the tasteless new maid. She missed her old maids, maids that knew her inside out, but after the latest hushed-up scandal, the man of the house, the pater familias had let them all go. Scared old man. The lady suspected that he had bedded all of them and was afraid that with the wave of revelations that was hitting their part of the county, they might speak out about his indiscretions.
It was a picture of quiet beauty, of still serenity. If someone would have frozen this or that moment during the course of the afternoon, it might have looked like an Impressionist painting.
No one felt the impending sense of dread.
The girls made flower garlands for their long, free-flowing hair and the boys played tag, occasionally glancing over to the girls and giggling at their girlishness.
The adults had tea and discussed anything but politics and what was going on in the land. They too could not see beyond their own fields, beyond the life they knew.
A storm would hit and devastate them soon enough. The higher powers knew that. So they let blissful ignorance gently cast its spell over this calm, delicate summer's day.

Late Night Thoughts With The Bartender

The men flocked to the two new arrivals like cocks to hens.
How pathetic. They ran and rammed into each other, trampling like an elephant herd.
I sniggered to myself as I watched them.
They were so obvious in their attempt to get laid. It was cruel upon the eyes.
I sniggered a little more and turned to my friend, who was quietly ignoring the entire scene. He sipped on his drink like a man who had done nothing but elegantly sip on drinks through thick and thin. He looked over to me coolly.
"What?" His eyes said, sharing my disgust at this display of shallow need.
So they couldn't keep it in their trousers for more than a day or two?
Ah hell, who could.
We'd all be at it if we could.
I reflected on my stream of consciousness, despising every word as I revisited it.
I miss this, I miss that.
I miss you, I miss me.
I miss me.
I sipped on my drink, not realising that the glass had been dry for a while.
The bartender took one look at me and poured me another finger of champagne, or something that looked remotely like it. It tasted nice.
The bunch of horny elephants did not return. I felt blessed to be distant from them.
The stupidity seemed to be contagious.
But we all struggle sometimes. I can't iron for shit. The man next to me smells like cheap loneliness. The one on the other side is asking himself how I am. How he is. How we are and how we should be.
Does it really matter?
I downed my drink and stopped the bartender from topping it up. He understood, nodding at me with no smile at all. I understood.
I uncrossed my legs, sighed at the emptiness of this past evening, sighed at the fact that I was not tipsy, sighed at the frustration I started to feel towards the world.
Bitter. Bitterness. Bitter Bitterness.
But it isn't wrong to feel a little bitter sometimes.
Only if it is sometimes and not more.
Tomorrow will be different.
And with that thought, I returned to the bar and ordered another drink.
Existentialism could wait.
The night was young and so was I.