The arrival. The other man. Possessed by his own mind, driven by irrationality and insanity, reeling over figures of the past and they way they shaped his future. His troubles were his definition in the very moment he made his way towards our table, his voice to be heard before his entrance, matched by the volume of the first man, the money. Shame, embarrassment or shock were to be felt by us, the women, unused to nonconformity, or simply uncomfortable with certain aspects of its presence.
The second man, the one that was desired but not desiring, was caught up in a sentiment of vulgarity, a brutal reinterpretation of words spoken with anger and callous fights with strengthless arguments. His appearance, his movements, the way he trailed his hand towards his mouth which dragged out a series of chemically induced gasps as his lips parted and released smoke, with a rich, masculine aroma, herbaceous and powdery, reminiscent of the natural world and its origins, were all in vain. For his pain did not fool me. His eyes were deep, sunken, maybe swollen, voids of darkness and unaddressed issues. But such a facade cascades with superficiality, as I knew his pain was truly desire for revenge, seeking for a way to interdict the laws of healing, searching for escapades and shortcuts, wanting to place a hand in a spot that should be unspoken of, to caress a person, regardless of who they are, in a cruel attempt of replacing something that had yet to cease. Relationships. A funny thing.
Chit chat. Gossip. Between two women. Smiles exchanged, texts about the figures before them. Subtle and unsubtle looks. Walks to the bathroom, agreements about attractions and feelings, complications and contradictions. Waiting in line for an empty room, a break from the group and back to a sisterhood untested by the universe.
Chit-chat. Gossip. Between two men. No smiles exchanged. No giggles about the figures standing before them. A phone, with salacious images, forcing laughter about the sexual nature of the women. One stood up, then sat back down. Lingering. Impatient. Gone.
The bill. Split this time. Not equally. Just enough to appease the man who had paid the last several times. A nagging sense of time running out. The clock, alarmingly bright. “Let’s go”. And we left.
(Violeta Banica)
