Indietro

Clees Joy


Spaces

Spaces 

The artificial light leaves a stinging sensation in my eyes. It is only me and two other people on the bus, one of them a guy on his phone, his mist of Bleu de Chanel slithering through the air and up my nose. The other person, an elderly woman, is sitting next to me, eating some kind of berry crumble. I watch the screen on the bus depicting a blur of star gossip and daily news. I forgot my lenses. The woman next to me follows my gaze. "Shocking what the right-wings got through in parliament, isn't it?" As she speaks, some crumbles shift to the corners of her blue-stained lips. She takes small bites in between and, while chewing once or twice, thinks about what she wants to say next. The sandy pieces move through her mouth, absorbing her spit, making it harder to speak cleanly. I imagine how the cake slowly becomes a blue gulp covering her tongue and teeth, staining and scratching at her inner workings. She takes her hand off the armrest and swipes away the crumbles and a little bit of spit that found its way out while talking to me. "Anyway, such a pity that the metro isn't driving until next month; I hate taking the bus." I smile, "Yes, it really is a hassle!" She doesn't need to know about my claustrophobia and the daily struggle to take the metro, knowing it could get stuck in the small shafts someday. She continues talking about the latest news, and I continue imagining the blue sand settling between her molars. 

The next stop is mine. I smile at her once more and get out of the bus. My eyes are swimming by now, and it's only on instinct that I make my way towards Scenes, our spot. Walking through the gloomy streets of the city, I try to recall what the elderly woman said, but I can't. She would probably be appalled that I have not been keeping up with all the news around the world. "This generation is only obsessed with themselves," I hear her mumbling, which one could argue is the case for me. A little voice in my head chimes in that without any access to media for weeks, it was impossible to be up to date. I ignore it. There was a time when I informed myself about everything concerning politics. Fear had always been a power vessel to me. It makes people go on the streets; some even glue themselves on them. It made me go on runs late at night, listening to podcasts discussing the latest atrocities of the world. So, at night, I was breaking my personal records time and time again, thinking of men lurking in the corners, kidnapping me, and cutting off the superfluous pieces of my body. The problem became tangible when I realised the proximity of fear and control: My very own endorphin soda, bottled and sold. Still, I feel ashamed for not listening to Crumble Woman. Calling her that name reminds me of a book I once read about a woman who made herself into puff pastry. Or was it a casserole? She offered herself to her partner, but I can't remember if, in the end, he relished her. I don't even remember if I liked the book, only that its title was pretty on the nose. 

In front of me appear the bright letters of Scenes. The sight of Naima and Sean through the dirty windows lifts the weight of my ankles, and I energetically push open the door to the old theatre, now turned bar.

--

Naima: I have written a few short stories here and there, but nothing worthwhile, though.

Sean: How do you create original characters anyway?

Naima (dramatically): They appear in my dreams.

I (chiming in): Or in satanic visions!

Sean (rolling his eyes): OK, Samuel T. Coleridge. No, for real, I could never come up with an entirely new one. Do you get what I mean? Like essentially, they all have your ideology; dammit, how should I explain? Like any thought, opinion, or what they do is from your experience.

Naima: You lost me a little now.

Sean: See, everybody reading your book will know it's you.

Nayma: Well, you can always draw inspiration from other people, or you could just split your experiences and perceptions up: You split yourself into several characters so nobody notices. Easy.

Sean (thinking aloud): I could never publish a novel with a sex scene. Imagine my parents read it. Now, we can still pretend.

I: Well, good thing your writing is shit.

Scenes is nearly empty, and for once, the sight is not blurred by loud people leaving their cigarette smoke in the air. It's Monday, after all. Sean and I are sitting on two stools next to each other, our knees touching the scrappy wooden table. Naima is slouching on the leather couch, slowly peeling off small pieces of the leathery armrest, meticulously crumbling them between her fingers. From the corner of my eyes, I see Tom leaving his place behind the bar and making his way to us, swiftly taking the few stairs of the old stage. He gives us all a smirk and takes out his lighter. From my position, his face illuminates eerily when lighting the cream taper candle on our table, and I can't help but stare as the room around me turns darker. He looks up, smiling at me shamelessly as he always does, and suddenly, I feel too big for the tiny, hard stool beneath me. My back refuses to become straighter, and I notice the feeling of smudged lipstick on my dry lips. His noticing me makes me aware of the space I inhabit. I struggle to stay in the frame. 

Tom: You guys want something? (looking at me) Skinny Bitch for you as always?

I: No, I guess my signature drink has changed. Moscow Mule, please.

After the others have ordered, I leave the stage and head towards the bathroom, letting go of an exhale that was stuck in my lungs. I halt and check my reflection in the mirror. I like looking at myself in the mirror. I do not always like what I see, but I do need to look, nevertheless. Our previous conversation comes to my mind, and I wonder what Naima meant. You split yourself up into several characters so nobody notices. What if I already did that? If I ever wrote a book, nothing would remain of me.

"Everything OK?" I snap out of it as Naima touches my shoulder. "Yes, of course, I just," I can't find the words, still being somewhat in the belly of the beast, so instead, I try to be funny, "Checking on me in the bathroom? You are almost as discreet as my parents were back home." She ignores my comment with a cheeky eye roll, "I am really happy you're back; how are you holding up?" I give her a reassuring smile, "No relapse so far, so good."

"I'm sorry I did not realise it sooner."

For a second, I forget to reply, but I put my face on and give her a little smile, "I should be the one checking on you. How are you holding up considering the political climate?". "I'm ignoring how you’ve masterfully deflected my question – you know you can always talk to me. Speaking politics, pretty shit, my dad wants me to come back, saying it's not safe. I don't want to. As simple as that." A wave of guilt escapes me. My first-world problem gave me a free ride through the Clinique, while Naima is asked daily to go back to where she came from. She was born here. Naima sees right through me, "Don't you ever think that again." She takes my hand, squeezes it once, and we head back to Sean, where our drinks await us already.  

I absent-mindedly stir my Moscow Mule with one of those fancy metal straws and start blowing raspberries like I used to do as a child, as my friends are invested in a new conversation. Watching them, a tingling sensation of serenity arises within me.

How brave we used to trust in our surroundings.




Invialo: 15:14 Sun, 24 March 2024 by : Clees Joy age : 26