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| | mardi, septembre 21, 2004

She would never return. I blamed myself for it, for asking too much.
She made up stories for me. Very small ones at first. Later she began to write them down.
I thought about it for a very long time: why she didn’t leave me a note.
She wanted an open ending. She wanted me to continue the story.

The next morning the police came to my door to ask me some questions about the dead woman and I wondered about reporting her missing. But I didn't.

They showed me a picture of the woman. Her eyes were closed, slack jaw, damaged and puffy face, red hair in plaids on a white pillow.

"Do you know her?" they asked. I’d never seen her."Hasn’t she been reported missing?"
"No, not yet." a policeman answered, looking around the flat.
"Do you live alone here?"
"Yes." I replied.
"Be careful. Don’t go out alone at night," the policeman said when they left.
I stayed in that day and thought about you. They showed the woman on the news at night and I wondered if you were watching.

| | jeudi, septembre 16, 2004

"Eh,I have a sexual question," he whispers, while looking around carefully."Do you do them as well?"
"Mon dieu", I exclaim, "why is it necessary to talk about the details of your eh intimate relationships with me, an old clairvoyant. You should see a doctor, one of those young and dynamic types that go jogging every day."
"Let me explain, it is more a question of the mind that of the flesh." he continues, almost panicking, his forehead now blinking with sweat.
"Ok, *sigh* what is it my dear man?" I sigh, "Impotence?"
"No, no it's nothing of that kind. I am of Italian descent. "But," he hestitates, sighs and shrugs,"I have a fixation."
"A fixation? Well I must say I have never ever encountered anyone I knew to have a fixation. I don't even know what you mean, my friend." I just babble along, hoping to fill the awkward situation he is creating with pointless words.
"Let me explain, madame, you will see that the question I have for you is a difficult one. I have been advised by a hynotist to tell you about my problem."
It must be Charles Piquet the well know hypnotist and a good friend of mine, who has sent me this strange bird. It must be some kind of absurd poofy joke of his. He sure knows how to embarrass an old lady.
"Alright then, young man, what is it? Oh, and order me another vin de table please."
"I try my best to be a good lover. And I always look out for new techniques and experiences, so I read manuals regularly. I find it helps me to be confident and I must say -without flattery- that women tend to be very satisfied with my sexual performance. Now, My problems started the day I read a manual about cunnilingus.
You must know, that during sex I tend to think a lot. But this manual, well, it said that to bring a woman to orgasm with one's tongue, it was important to mimick all letters of the alphabet. Being of Italian descent, this is a nightmare to me. As soon as I start to please a woman down there, I cannot help but think of grandmother Carmelia's vermicelli soup. I've tried very hard to concentrate on the voluptuousness of the woman's body spread out before me, but all I can see before my eyes are memories of sunday dinner when I was a child."

"Mm,I see, mais, eh, have you ever tried learning Chinese?"

| | mercredi, septembre 15, 2004

She walked out the door and never returned. She was supposed to be home when I came back from work, but she wasn't. It came as a surprise to me. She was out of words and out of love.
When I walked into the street that night, I saw policemen moving people away from the tree near the apartment. They had discovered the body of a young woman. Strangled.
I imagined how they must have found her. Peaceful, frozen, bloodless.
I sat in the kitchen for hours, looking out of the window until nightfall.
I watched television crews arrive, trying to get a glimpse of the crime scene.
And suddenly I realised it was over. She would never return.

*Edited 2 times

| | vendredi, septembre 10, 2004

It was mid october when they finally found the body. It had been lying under a thick layer of maple leaves for some time. The woman had been dead for 12 days. She had been lying in a small trench on the strip of public garden near the appartment buildings, under the trees. Someone had noticed some cloth sticking out.
That day, when the police blocked the whole street, because people wanted to come and have a look at the rotting corpse, that day, in the freezing cold of the first winter, I left. I walked out in a grey coat and never returned.

| | jeudi, septembre 09, 2004

You ask me about the woman's body. Is it still there? Undiscovered? Hasn't the wind blown away the leaves by now?
"No", I tell you, "it's not happening now. It happened a long time ago, Time is relative. She can be there for a very long time."
We are sitting near the window of our appartment and you are looking out to the patch of trees in the public garden.
"She's wearing a poncho, so I guess it happenend in the eighties. Nobody wears a poncho anymore these days."
You look worried. We've been having some fights lately. About time. Spending more time together. You want more time to yourself. I feel I'm acting like a whimp compared to your decision making. But I don't know what to do to win you back. You are already leaving me behind.
"She was pregnant." I blurt out. "She was 6 months pregnant when she died."
Your eyes become dark and shiny you are angry.
"You don't dare", you whisper. I know I have hurt you, but it's the only way.
You are going to take a bath. I suppose you will contemplate your counterstrike there and maybe cry a bit.
She was probably killed inside a house. Either drowned or killed while taking a shower or bath. Water in the lungs with remnants of soap.
I can't know all this because she hasn't even been discovered.

The house is quiet. I don't hear you making any sounds in the bathroom. I can hear the traffic outside and the wind against the windows.

Then the bathroom door swings open and you come in, angry, yelling :"When are you finally going to stop the fucking melodrama? Why can't you just play a normal game. Like other couples do. Create a fantasy and that's it. Why do you have to draw in dead bodies, unborn children and MY BLOODY FEELINGS all the time."
She leans against the kitchen door. Breath thick with anger and frustration.

"Games? I never saw it as a game." I reply, quietly. "So, what you want to say is that we don't connect very well together. We're not at the same level? You don't like the stories I make up? Do you like to play games?"

She sighs. "Darling, you know I don't want to make this difficult, but I like a very simple life, very clear. You know that."

"I don't trust you." I reply. She's a soft, beautiful intelligent, sensitive woman but I can't trust her fully. I've been trying for so long now. I can't get the idea out of my mind that if I give her everything, she will take it all and leave me. The way she left all the others before me.

"That's why I've been making up stories. To test you."

| | mercredi, septembre 08, 2004

He's a thin boned man with carrot colored sandy hair. Thinning every day now. He blames his wife. Ex now. She was cutting off all social contacts. Keeping him inside the house all the time. Like a sheep, a little lam, reading his paper and watching a quiz. He always knew the answers to most of the questions. Why did he live like this for 10 years? Listening to her, putting up with her gloomy moods.
And now he resurfaces and suddenly feels his lungs fill with air. His body is older but his mind wants to return to the days before the wedding, before the mistake. Make up for the time he missed. He buys new after shave and men's magazines. He dresses adventurous and goes into town quite a lot, walking. He looks at himself in the mirror and decides he looks pretty ok after all. He'll go to the gym.
He feels reborn, young at heart and tries to charm younger women. He's ready to meet someone new. He reckons it's not too late to be a father.
But the women he meets politely decline his offers to go for a drink.
He's a recently divorced man and it's written all over him. He tries, desperately, to connect to someone, to get through to their mind, their feelings, but they won't let him in. They see a man grown old too fast. A clock that can't be turned back. And all these missing years. And he does all he can. To make up for what's not there. To show the vitality that's left, the humour and the skill. He's always clean, freshly showered and properly dressed, they think, like older men are.
No fun, no surprises. A dead end.

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