She blew the smoke out of her swollen lips laying in a bed that didn’t belong to her. For the last four and a half minutes, a mosquito was flying around the room, and that was the only interesting part of that night, even more interesting than all her life stories put together. She was also under the impression that this must have been the least aesthetically pleasing bedroom she had ever seen: Two single beds and a clothing rack. Could she maybe see that clothing rack as a metaphor? Or as an art piece? Probably not, unless there were a few heads or hands or a person in general hanging out to dry on it. Then yes, she could possibly fulfill her need of turning everything into a theatrical scene. For a moment she sensed a heavy smell, but she could not figure out where was coming from. Maybe from all the the hanging heads that she imagined in the clothing rack.
- "Will you finally stop with those feminist bullshit denials?” He monologued while trying to untie his sweaty balls that kept sticking with each other.
-"If you’re looking for a woman that you can put on a leash and walk her around like a dog, then you probably found the wrong woman!" She said, laughing sarcastically at herself, as she was the only one who could analyze the pleasure she got by her lack of control in sex , as a cover up for her need to leave to the man all the power she would normally have under her captivity in everyday life. It was also that ecstatic feeling of guilt: a feminist giving generously control to someone whose manhood is so big that could have been sold for a few million bucks.
She gathered the expensive (despite the minimal use of fabric to create) underwear from the floor, grasping her waist like an old lady picking greens from the fields, and wore it feeling disgusted by its coldness. She had to get dressed. When you are naked, you lose all the seriousness during arguments, and besides that, you have nowhere to put your hands: no pockets or belt, nothing, so the only thing you can do is uncomfortably cover up your nakedness and play with your hair. She didn’t like to do any of those two.
-"Where are you going again; Can you for once be normal?" His hands were still on his balls. Any form or use of male genitalia outside of sex had always been causing her discomfort.
-"I'll go to hell" she thought, but unfortunately she could not say it in English with the same emphasis as she would do in Greek. So she decided to say something less dramatic instead.
- "I'm going to have a cigarette in the living room. Maybe I’ll dance alone a little."
He was looking at her lost. Then he got up from the sweaty sheets and stood in front of her.
- "You are a crazy woman, you know that?"
Listening to these words, she imagined herself with her hair messed up like a cuckoo's nest, the ash of the cigarette in her mouth reaching up to the bum and red lipstick smudged all over the l the lines of her lips. That kind of crazy.
- "That's why you want me" She smiled at him like a mad woman. One of those sexy ones that you see in the movies, the femme fatales that she always liked. Not crazy like the mad women of the neighborhood that just lost their husband.
She closed the bedroom door and layd on the sofa like a medieval painting of Charles-Auguste Corbineau . She still felt her body burn.
"Why for all the good lovers you have to pay a price? I would rather be alone” She lit a cigarette and stood next to the window. “What would Buckovski do if he was a woman?” He would probably drink a bottle of whiskey and laugh sarcastically, making his fuck a gorgeous short story. Her eyes shone bright.
"That's it!" She exclaimed out loud in English, realizing that she did not make any kind of great discovery and that she is not from England as well.
"This will be my inspiration. He will become the unfulfilling lover of my story. I will excel as a writer, I will use it as the ultimate shallow and raw inspiration.”
The lover (not important to be named differently in this story) came into the room.
- "You've smoked two packets of cigarettes today."
- "If I wanted this kind of remarks, I would have stayed at my parents’ house” She mumbled lighting another Marlboro.
-"Do whatever you want. Don’t you keep saying that you are an independent woman?"
She picked up on his classic sarcastic whenever he would mention the word "independent"
- "Say whatever you want honey. I’d rather get cancer from cigarettes than from you. "
She laughed again with her genius response.
"Do you mind if I sit next to you?" He said to her with broken English.
- "Watch out only because madness is contagious"
She got up and played Tom Waits. Her salvation every time she felt vulnerable.
"A guy like Waits, a guy like Charles, a guy like that, would love me wildly. They also find salvation in the dark” She thought and started dancing the “New Coat of Paint”.
The lover stood next to her, and he was breathing so loudly that the sound caused her more than mere discomfort.
- "Your breathing sounds like you're trying to inflate a balloon from your nose"
He looked at her again like a loser but he was right. When you are disturbed just by a person's breathing, it is as if you are disturbed by its very existence.
- "Sorry, I'll breathe more quietly"
-"Thanks"
She lit another cigarette. He opened the TV.
"There is a huge cultural gap between us," she thought as a cheap girl in the TV was talking about her need to look like cat through surgery.
-"Good night" he murmured, filling in her thought of getting out of there.
-"Good night."
She closed the door behind her and went out into the street. The air smelled like something died 5 minutes ago.