May 27, 2015

For Red.

This evening was a highlight of the social season. Beauty surrounded everything.  Striking gowns, sumptuous chandeliers, carpets, mirrors, curtains. Precious paintings on the walls and expensive jewellery on ladies. Shinning routine of the ball until the moment when he noticed her, standing with all the flamboyance and grace she leaned her high cheekbones to the red with attribute. He approached the bar to catch up with friends and fulfil some mandatory social duties.  Swirling his glass with few drops of brandy, he somehow managed to answer questions automatically. His eyes and thoughts kept running away towards the little group by his left. She was sitting back to him and he felt the urge to see her face and look at her closely. He quickly drank the last drops and headed towards her to ask her to dance. She smiled, raised her hand and let him be her companion on this improvised rendezvous.

They began dancing tango. His hand touched her naked back. Her skin was soft and hot. It was almost cheek to cheek. He glanced across the hem of her dress, which allowed her delicate shoulders to create a perfect curve with her bare deer-neck, struck by a tassel of hanging earrings. He yearned to kiss it. Being carried away by the thought, he slowly got closer and warmed it by his own breath, until her fragrance crept into his nostrils. He was borne away by sensual velvet rose copiously tickled by passionate spice. The fire rose. The living rose. If he had ripped it out violently, she would have stabbed him with her thorns and he would have felt only the metal taste of blood while absorbing the pain. He whispered:” Beautiful perfume.” Their legs drew waves on the parquet. Her breasts copied deep breaths, which abandoned the body through her plump lips.  He wanted to leave with her to the quietest place so he could hear her beauty scream as loudly as possible. Tango had finished and when he asked her name, she replied:” My name is Red.” He accompanied her to the table and thanked for the dance. 

Majda Bekkali - Mon Nom Est Rouge ( My name is Red )
He took up his previous position at the bar, so he could see her. He watched her for couple more minutes until he left to take a bite. When he returned to the bar and stared into space where she had sat he found out that she was gone. He searched the entire hall, lobby, exterior but he did not find her. She just disappeared. Without farewell, number or a name. Questioning started; "Have you seen her, do you know her or anything about her…?" He slowly created an image of his femme fatale. It took him a week until he enquired her number from a friend. He convinced her to go for a coffee with him. A cup of Irish cream came along with the coffee, they laughed and had a lot to talk about. They parted with a promise of a next meeting. Date unknown, she said she would call.  After three never-ending days full thoughts about her a phone rang. The voice he was so eager to hear announced that the meeting is being called off indefinitely, it said that she had to leave and did not know when she would return. These words are engraved on his mind seemingly forever. Pleasant tension is slowly turning into a nightmare. Agonizing oscillation of catastrophic scenarios and tranquilization that everything is absolutely alright. He cannot rise from delirium to lucidity. He wants to run away from all images of her but in fact he knows he would be empty without them. An insane form of masochism. He attempts to release himself by rationality. It doesn’t work. He tries to occupy himself, just to find out that his ability to focus on anything else but her is at freezing point. Even casual routine requires a great deal of energy and self-denial. He cannot eat, he cannot sleep, he cannot get up, he just cannot… Cigarette lighten up from cigarette. He tries to disturb his mind by watching a movie just to find out after half an hour that he has no clue what it is about.  He asks obnoxious questions and makes up answers that never last more than 5 minutes. So where is she? Why don’t I hear from her? What if she has met someone more interesting? Has she even left? Or was it just a merciful lie? Has he made any impression at all? Has he failed in any important moment? Has it been a game from her part which he doesn’t understand? What doesn’t he see, understand or ignore? Has he hurt her somehow? Is he good enough? Doesn’t this almanac of perfection deserve more? Wasn’t it just a selfish theft of her attention, energy and time? He takes all the blame. He thinks about all the nice moments of their joint meetings. He adds a bit of imagination to it and the belly is again griped with that strange yet wonderful feeling. He craves her presence, her love. Hormones are rushing through his body. Should he call? Or shouldn’t he? He knows he doesn’t want to rip off this rose violently. He wants to water her, take care of her. He wants to cherish her, cuddle with her and make her happy. He doesn’t want to impose himself and tread upon her. He wishes to make her laugh. Vexed by his own purgatory, he decides not to call. It hurts. Cruel knowledge of his own vulnerability.

He finds himself curled up in the early morning soften so much that he could be put through an eye of a needle. He wants it so much but it cannot be. A phone rings. As it has rung many times before and it is going to many times after. There is only one question in his mind. Is it her? He is so eager to hear once more: ”my name is Red.” 

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