Her tone hung somewhere between sarcastic and annoyed, just as her own life.
She’s sitting there, with her lovely tiny purse and the usual posh wearing. I passed before Fucken Joe with his so-fucken-dangerous wincing. They’re nicknaming him as “Joe”, but “The Fucken” is my own invention. I know he got bothered if you didn’t nod at him, so I didn’t.
The Twinkie waitress blinks at me. That vixen!
I moved to my usual table, it’s just besides the one she’s sitting at.
“Hi!” I said in great ecstasy, the way could be not real at all.
“Hi”. She murmured it with her usual gravity. A sweet little smile was upon her face. That sweet little smile a lady would give to her doorman on the way of being humble, but I didn’t care for the moment, I just adore the way she’s waving her head while saying that. It was a quiet, confident, and tender. She’s a quite a lady. I told myself.
“How are you? The hospital?”
“Fine, fine”. She’s reviewing a magazine laying between her hands. I loved that light-browned wisp which laying on her check from the bending over head.
“And what’s about your writing?“. She asked without averting her eyes from the pages.
“Good, am working in my first novel.”
“Yep!” I fucken said it like a kiddy whose proud showing mom his grads, “and my last book—the short-stories collection—is doing great”.
“Good for you!”
I looked to her stylish wearing again. I wish to live the day I see it folded on my condo’s floor. The foxy waitress got my tea mug, and smiled as a gesture of intimate collusion. Thanks, superlative ass!
And as she’d giving us her back, I shoot to the lovely doctor, “and by the way, have you red the book yet?“.
“Ummm,” she mumbled “not yet. You know, am busy and stuff”. She raised me her hands with the magazine as she’s saying ”busy and stuff“.
“Sure.” I said fervently, like encouraging her to face hell.
Her face lit up with a wide smile, real true one this time, while looking at the doorway. I knew it was her boyfriend. And while having their way out, I received a sorry smile from the witty waitress.
And in my shit hole, I used to stare to the only picture I have for her. It was my computer’s wallpaper. I used to look at her and wonder about that beauty she have got. Her magic is still shining even if she was in the background. It was a picture some friend got me when I was sitting in the café. I told him to, and I managed her to appear in the picture. I usually open the picture on my computer, zooming into her face, trying to understand why that nose had that shape? Why her eyes has that look? Why her smile has that brightness.
And I usually got depressed after all of that.
Reading my filthy book, watching a sick soap opera I did wrote episode or two of, standing before the mirror to watch that creepy face.
I lay on my small bed. I saw nothing in the complete darkness. I felt something was squeezing my heart. I asked myself why am fighting anyway. Why I can’t just stop doing everything and that’s it. I’ll have no money. OK. Having no money means no electricity. OK. No TV. OK. No hair cut, no café. OK. No tea. OK. No food. OK. Who’s want to live anyway?!.
I know am too coward to kill myself. How’s that fucken dilemma begun? Yea, a notorious dick looking for a wet pussy, and sperm which is too intelligent. Sure it knew its certain way. Yea. dick of a father I haven’t saw, and a pussy of a runaway mother as well, and sperm which have been transformed into a depressed guy who writes shit.
I remembered a face. Sharp handsome features. A shiny black hair. A thin stylish mustache. That’s my father in my kiddy years. I used to draw it on my huge shits of paper, show them to my mom and say proudly “That’s my daaaaad!” After many years, I discovered that I only was drawing a primitive profile for Clark Gable, when my mom used to watch “Gone with the Wind” for two times a week. Like she’s seeing herself Miss O’Hara or something.
So, that picture I was coping like a maniac was really suitable for both me and my Scarlett.
Strange word. Strange pronouncing. It’s the most fitting word for a retard.
I was a fucken idiot.
I recalled all what I’ve thought about this night—along with every other night—and knew am still an idiot. If I ever let anyone to know what am feeling, he’ll say am an idiot. It’s ironic to know that all what bothering you, always, is just nonsense.
I don’t want to see a mark upon their eyes saying “Pathetic”. No. Thank you. I smiled bitterly. Like they don’t! like she don’t! like my aunt’s didn’t when her ex-husband was pushing me to go buy some gum with a vase on my head, while he’s laughing.
I kept touching my arms, hands, face and legs. I raised my knees to my chest and hugged it.
Am not here. Am not here.
It all must’ve an end.
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