Mojito*

I asked for a mojito and chicken wings in two different places.

It is Sunday afternoon, I am alone at a food truck festival. There are a lot of people here and I don’t know anybody, but this is the kind of place where I will definitely meet some hipster colleagues from work. I don’t dislike them, but sometimes I have no patience for their false nihilist attitude towards what they would call ordinary people. Or would be ‘regular’? I am always between the lines: I’m not a hipster, I’m not ordinary. Actually, I don’t even know what that means and I feel like I’m back at school again, with all those empty labels.

I am waiting for the chicken wings and the mojito starts to kick in. I haven’t eat a thing yet and now a relaxing wave is coming and I am entering in this numb, happy, zen, euphoric state when I hear my name being repeated from a distant land… John. John. John. Hey man, I think they’re calling you, someone behind me says. People are laughing and for a second I laugh too and school came to my mind once again, bullying, funny but not that embarrassing and I’ve never really cared about it. I don’t even know why I am thinking about that time. It is as far as ancient Greek History.

I have the chicken wings and in front of me there is this girl I know from somewhere I cannot remember. She is probably between the same defining lines I am and this means a safe zone. She is staring at me as I walk into her direction. She is not a sunny happy face, but an intrigued one, also alone and drinking beer. As shy as a turtle being bothered, I am about to say hello, from where do I know you, feeling my face blushing, when I almost fell on her, dropping down some of the chicken wings but saving the mojito.

Hold your licquor, she says and we laugh, again, with the people around us. Elena. John. I know, she says. Did you check the vinyl stand? No. Want to? Well… yes, sure.

He had a radiogram back home and a lot of new records he never find the time to listen. They went to the stand and he wouldn’t ask much more, since she didn’t tell from where they knew each other. He was afraid to say something and spoil this pleasant unexpected situation. They walk side by side while he digs in his memory from vestiges of her passage and nothing comes to his mind.

Aren’t you going to say something? What, he asks. I don’t know, you were the one walking in my direction, she smiles. Ah, that. He is a little nervous, but pretends to be calm trying to avoid the embarrassing blushing. He doesn’t say a word thanks to the vinyl stand owner that now is talking to them. He cannot pay attention to the guy as something suddenly becomes clear: the image and texture of her hair between his fingers, this curly, black and short messy hair and he almost touches it again to check if it is still the same, but longer. He asks himself if in his recent amnesia if they hadn’t be together before.

*Clique aqui para ler em português.

*To be continued. It is a work in progress story from a creative writing course. Your feedback is very important. If you don’t want to write it here, send me an e-mail: tatireuter@gmail.com. Thanks. :)