Chrones were easily spotted in the Old Town, usually hand in hand with power-hungry men, middle aged or above, seeking for a one night someone. Darker thoughts for the older generation, complemented the fallen figures in the air. We walked, unaware of our direction or destination. A shoe, one belonging to myself, hanging wearily from my hand, creating a certain imbalance in the stroke of my step, lacking precision. The path went downwards, spiralling towards the edge of a plastered road. Agony. Of the throbbing wound on my foot’s posterior.
Trustfunds and credit cards, acquired by the likes of our parents, said to offer simplicity in withdrawals and gains but truly designed to track each and every purchase. And the location of those same purchases immediately after. Our money, well, his, was dragged into virtual losses by the likes of a QR code, enabling our departure on two-wheeled vehicles that fed on streams of current and voltage. The rides were sly, sliding through masses and throwing narrow edges, leading to my isolation. Scanning, my eyes came across unfamiliar faces, acknowledged from the parallel of their positions, nonchalantly discussing the matters of their own lives. Peculiar. How strangers seem to lead their own lives, outside your scope of interest.
A phone call. Of distress and despair. Like a child, separated from their parents in a store halfway across the town they lived in. A rush, a search. We were reunited, plunging through interminable crowds, at a level slightly superior to others. Chit-chat. Gossip. Two women and a man, being exactly that. Plans were made, then un-made, roads were challenged by our strident ambitions, then abandoned by the fear of being struck by trucks. Reckless endeavours led to reckless behaviours and decisions, or indecisiveness, forcing a focus on the now, dictating the terms of our next move. A reservation was made. Close by. “We’ll be there in 10 minutes”. And so we were. Streets were near escapes of death, and with each adventure the adrenaline rushed through our bloodstreams, begging for a little stimulation, action and freedom.
Hasty. That's what we were. Two women and a man. Casually depicted in the 21st century. The door was a threshold, calling for style and decency, money and influence, norms and standards of a higher society. We conformed - somewhat. The table was outside, on the outskirts of the restaurant.
Another waiter, a woman, not impatient, just frustrated by the aspects of her job that required a demeanour of her persona in the face of youth and others she did not deem worthy. A drink was to be ordered. One to be shared. One that had a similar share of alcoholic qualities as the two identical drinks before it. A portion of Mexican food. Two dishes on a single plate. To be split. Between two women, but not the man.
A call was made. Yet another. Demanding the presence of some other individual, considered more worthy of the women's - our - time. In some respects, considered more attractive, more experienced, more appealing to the wiles of a real woman. A contrast to the money man. This other individual was desired, not desiring. And awaited by all.
(Violeta Banica)
