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Tales of Nothingness

By Ella Valentine

Dusty Summer

The dust on top of my favourite books and the ones I had never read were telling me I was spending too much time on things that didn’t matter or didn’t give me such pleasure. I woke up next to the same girl I did about a couple of months ago and I still didn’t know where she was from or what her second name was. At this moment when I looked at her I felt curious to find out, but I knew I wouldn’t ask her in case she started thinking that this might turn into something more regular. She had a lacy silk black top to sleep in as if she went out prepared to end up in someone’s bed. I found it cute if she had had the time and thought to put into calculating who she might bump into at that particular place that night and what kind of underwear and colour they would get more aroused by. I had to tell her what to wear next time.

Whether it was a day at the office, a meeting at a 5-star hotel, a business trip to an exotic place, it was all a regular day at the office – people with their persuasive and negotiating skills, pitching social media strategies, getting loose at night, not sleeping enough, thinking they worked too much when in fact they were just appearing and disappearing before other people’s eyes like a brief blur, impressing some of them, disappointing most of them, irrelevant to the majority. I knew how irrelevant I was, sitting in the centre of the table in my suit, watching them, judging them, disregarding their ideas and getting over-paid to be able to afford more places and people who were going to disappear before I had remembered their names.

Suddenly all the pointlessness and indifference of the city turned around and disclosed this compelling, unnecessary urge to live and stay awake for as long as I could to see deeper in the obscurity of this so-called civilization. The muteness of the speeding train to get to hateful jobs, the constant freezing wind during summer, the lost small and great souls looking at one another, clueless to the withheld future from them – I kept seeing things, some of them might have not been there at all, but I saw them as clearly as I saw my own soul among them.

There was one thing that we all did in the summer when we were bored of the cold summer nights in London – jump off to south of France to our villas and invite any girl that was around at the time – some of them were stunning, but not all of them. We just wanted fun girls who wouldn’t bother us too much and most of them were actually nice girls. Poor girls, probably hoping to land either a wealthy young bachelor or a middle-aged married sugar. Sometimes I felt kind of bad for them so I acted friendly and didn’t try to fuck them. After all, I had done enough playing and fucking to care of much importance about any more. I watched the old American couple next to me on the plane, reading books, knowing each other so well and I wondered what it must be like to spend so much of a life with someone – I imagined small details they shared with each other like which days to shave, hiding dirty laundry from one another, paranoid thoughts, emergency trips to the hospital and fake or lack of any orgasms in the past. I watched how they weren’t in love anymore – they nearly resembled a brother and sister but somehow it felt right. I turned my head to the girl next to me, she smiled sheepishly and I knew she’d never get it if I told her. I just wanted to get to that villa of mine as soon as possible, smoke some cigars, take few sleeping pills and disappear in the longest nap – not thinking about the old couple, not thinking about how I was going to spend a weekend with this clueless beautiful girl who was trying to figure the world out in the wrong way, with the wrong man. In Monaco they called us Gatsby boys and I agreed, I only added that we were Gatsby wanna be’s – ordering more champagne than we could drink, all dressed-up in white shirts at the Grand Prix, dancing with tall skinny blondes, impossible to differntiate after a third round and thinking we were on top of the world in our hired yachts. I didn’t know what to do with the girl next to me at the table so I kept on feeding her with champagne hoping that that’s all she wanted and I was making her happy.

Year after year I found myself living for those long nights of partying, losing connection with a girl either because she wasn’t smart enough to catch up with me or because I was too much of an asshole to take her seriously. Once again those thoughts just flew by me and were out of my head in less than a minute. I wasn’t sure if I should stop for a while and pay attention to them or just keep getting on with my life and put them aside as small details. So I did the latter – already sipping drinks in Monaco, already having met Mexican Presidency crew and beautiful Brazilian women. This was life and I chose it not because it was a good life but because I was there in that moment and even though I had lived this kind of a life for so long, I was still having a good time refusing to pay my cut of the 100,000+ euros bill just for fun and nobody even noticed. So I put my part as a tip for the waitress, who by default came back to my villa but unfortunately started talking about her aspirations like they all liked to do. I hated when that happened because I didn’t want to be cruel and show them how indifferent I was, but I also couldn’t listen to any more stories of lost dreams or even worse – existing dreams. I had to make a move on them too soon otherwise I’d lose any desire to fuck them and I didn’t want to make them feel unwanted on top of their broken hearts and distant dreams.


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