On Chance

I leant two inch to the right and tilted my head just enough to maintain my gaze on the wall yet avoiding the inquisitive afternoon burn of the setting Sun. There it was.

Elevated in the memory, suspended in a pogrom of memory and flesh of the amorous, time bled between freshly laundered sheets and on glowing screens. All started here in this moment with the words about to appear on your screen too.

“ I am sorry, is this your scarf?”

I turned to meet the warmest blue eyes under a slightly messy fringe of ginger hair. There he was. I took my scarf off him and fumbled out a thank-you. He paused and swallowed, turned to face the painting with me, clicked his feet. In his effort of looking casual, he asked me: Do you come here often?

I stied to stifle a smile with the worst effort: “Depends on who’s asking, I had nothing to do with the pool of blood last week”. I was in there, shamelessly flirting. On my game.

He chuckled to the joke too enthusiatically. I chimed in laughing like an agitated penguin. So I took a chance and said, “ but you are safe now, my period finished last weekend”. There was no way I could inhale those words back now.

Silence fell. My rib cage sank and I bit down my lower lip and started to mentally write a eulogy of the tragic lonely and gradual demise of Cai caused by risqué jokes too early in courtships in upmarket Mayfair galleries.

“Ah, well, that means you are either already ovulating or about to start. I am therefore not safe, am I?” He said with sincere seriousness, “I mean, if I was to…oh, I mean, I don’t meant I am going to… I mean, um, I don’t mean… I am sorry, I feel like a guy who is late for his own funeral.”

Laughter tumbled out our lungs in the temple of higher aethetics. So we moved into each other’s puples after. Two breathes, one heartbeat.

In classical Greece, the lucky find is hermaion, which means a “gift-of Hermes”. But time is a kleptomaniac. The hands ran through the firery locks behind the ear of my amorous subject eventually wiped the pool of his blue eyes out of my face. My cheek warm against the black and white chequered tiles on a North London kitchen floor. The moon was dimming weakly behind the scream of the streetlight stared through the window. I had that scarf he picked up that day in my hand. His name was flashing on the screen calling. I couldn’t bring myself to hear anything from those lips I can still taste. Finding and losing cross waving in the same ambivalent space, in my fingertips, tingling away was his embrace.

The bottom of the mind is paved with crossroads- Paul Valéry

I visited Hanna today in New Cross. There was derailment of a freight train of Southern Rails. So I jumped on a train to London Cannon Street, travelling north, in order to travelling west. The hatred to transport system in South London kept a fire in me in also sub-zero wintry London. In a carriage occupied by what looks like a skiwear based anaphylactic shock, a older man was peacfully drooling in his sleep. I turned away from him to the other end of the train.

There he was, the warmest blue eye, now behind a pair of slightly dirty glasses and adorning a hipster beard. His mouth ajar and inhaling all the air between us. I involuntarily smiled at him crushing my headphone cable with both hands.

“What are you doing here?”

— Cai

All the same

If I knew, I would be a wise person. The question is rather, why am I not. If there was a better way to not hold myself back in doing, I could actually be present, instead of just being at places.

Every person I have ever slept with so far had blue eyes. Apparently, there is scientific evidence proving all people with blue eyes have one common ancestor, one person, and are therefore related, to a small extent. This might say something about me, although I don`t know what.

I have found that everyone I have encountered later on is like that first person, even if they are completely different. Their personalities might not have any similarities, they are definitely doing a very different job, are interested in different things and really, don`t even look similar at all, but still, they would all speak the same way and there is something in their faces, something that just creates one common person out of all of them, one that doesn`t even exist. And I`ve also noticed, I don`t only see that first person in the faces of the others following, but the faces of later ones in people I don`t know, just walk past the street, sit next to on the bus or serve at work. This commonality, the opposite of uniqueness, keeps spreading until, maybe one day, all people are going to be the same person, including me. I am going to become all of them. I am going to become that first person, which is all I`ve ever wanted. One day, I might be as good too, except that it won`t matter, because everyone else will be too. No win.

I am very certainly preoccupied with a few insignificant details that make my life harder on a day to day basis. Men drinking Guinness make me angry. So does pool. This might take my resources from thinking about all the things that annoy me about myself, but it will not make them go away. No amount of complaining text messages, violent thoughts, carefully aimed social media posts will erase the fact that I would rather be someone else, someone who is focused on doing instead of being. Not any time spent thinking will change them.

Will they ever go away?

- Hanna

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