Lilith
Suppose you're in the middle of an empty afternoon, not-so-quietly and not-so-calmly wrestling your way through the assembling phase of an Ikea bookshelf that looks like a chicken shack for mass-producing children as cannon meat for the revolution du jour.
Suppose she texts you, like so many other times, contacting you through an amazing amount of hours and days and seconds just to ask you what you're going to do tonight. And suppose that all of a sudden the hammer and screws scattered through the floor of your bedroom don't matter anymore, that all you want to do is to answer her that what you were planning for the remains of the day was to get the damn thing out of the way and fill it with your books and comics and university stuff to satisfy your not-so-newborn Ikea nesting instinct, like a pagan altar to justify the sacrifice of so much of your ultimate currency - your time.
Suppose that something in you lets you get aware of the fact that you've just invited her out to dinner before hitting the send button. And suppose you don't give a shit about it before you hit it anyway.
Suppose you take a compulsive shave you don't need, and that you get your best-looking pants out of your drawer before you even ask yourself what on earth you think you're doing.
Suppose the minute you see her you realize how much she's changed and how much more she's still the same, even with her hair cut short and a lot less ethnic jewelry on her skin and that zebra-striped minibackpack that would look ridiculous on everyone else in the world but that you find just gorgeous on her shoulders.
Suppose that, like every other time, your breath stops for a perfect second.
Suppose the dinner goes on like two very dear friends finding each other from the opposite sides of an enormous, stormy sea, still there for each other when needed, barely five minutes passed from the last time you heard from each other even if it was more like a month and a half.
Suppose the Chianti you get is a Reserve bottle two years older than the low-profile ribongia you ordered, thanks to a distracted waiter, thus greatly impairing your capability of mantaining your self-control and detachedness - and hers too, you can't help but notice. Suppose you carry on laughing and joking and generally being a very entertaining jester while also putting up an improvised class on the history of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict and the origins of Islam.
Suppose the Novello party of a contrada is very near, and being the Novello the first, youngest and deadliest of all wines of every year's crops, the place looks like a crossover between the antechamber of a Kafkian waiting room and a country fair. Suppose you both gladly fell prey to the Chianti, trying to manage one of the finest alcohol highs humanity will ever witness while strolling up and down the streets of Siena, a smoke and a laugh always behind the corner. And suppose you decide to plunge into the brainless crowd without a second thought.
Suppose that when you're not holding each other's forearm thrugh the crowd to reach the place to actually buy a Novello shot you're dancing and gesturing and buffooning into each other's face, oblivious of every other fucking zombie with a pulse this city is a perfect nest for. And suppose you're having one of the times of your life, every second a longer look into each other's eyes, every smile an unrecited promise, every touch a silent betrayal of a hope.
Suppose you both toss back at least five of the damn shots, fuel for your fun and for the illusion you don't want to end no matter what - at least, for your part.
And suppose the second you finally call it a night, after walking away from a minefield littered with empty wine bottles, empty paper cups and cigarette butts, feeling every step as a step less from your parting, you can't help but having a very creepy feeling as you step away from her shadow.
The feeling that says, you really thought this was behind you? You honestly believed time was on your side on this? You really thought that if you could forget all that happened inside you about her, I would as well?
And suppose you look up just as the last rethorical question hits your frontal lobes, right up, and up, and up some more, beyond the windows and the lowered shuts and the faint neon lights reflected on the concrete and the old, old stones of the pavement. A dark carpet with a thousands points of light hosts a wicked smile of a moon, as heartbreakingly beautiful as sincerely sardonical and ruthless, and there you have your answer, clearer than a hundred pages could spell it out or describe it for you. Suppose you realize you get it, and that you know, just know, that if you don't get something like that, you never will, no matter who explains it to you.
Suppose you ask yourself if this is something to be happy about.
Suppose you have lots of steps to take and lots of road to cover before you finally get the key into the door, and that every step you take that smile never hides itself behind a building, or a tree, or the indecent shroud of an artificial light. Always there, like a beacon pointing to your stupidity and naiveness and your dreams, as immortal as they will always be painful.
Suppose you finally decide to let this all out in a way of sort, typing it out of yourself as you would clean an infected wound, rejoicing for every stab of pain it - or maybe some other you - inflicts.
How would you feel?
What would you do?
Suppose she texts you, like so many other times, contacting you through an amazing amount of hours and days and seconds just to ask you what you're going to do tonight. And suppose that all of a sudden the hammer and screws scattered through the floor of your bedroom don't matter anymore, that all you want to do is to answer her that what you were planning for the remains of the day was to get the damn thing out of the way and fill it with your books and comics and university stuff to satisfy your not-so-newborn Ikea nesting instinct, like a pagan altar to justify the sacrifice of so much of your ultimate currency - your time.
Suppose that something in you lets you get aware of the fact that you've just invited her out to dinner before hitting the send button. And suppose you don't give a shit about it before you hit it anyway.
Suppose you take a compulsive shave you don't need, and that you get your best-looking pants out of your drawer before you even ask yourself what on earth you think you're doing.
Suppose the minute you see her you realize how much she's changed and how much more she's still the same, even with her hair cut short and a lot less ethnic jewelry on her skin and that zebra-striped minibackpack that would look ridiculous on everyone else in the world but that you find just gorgeous on her shoulders.
Suppose that, like every other time, your breath stops for a perfect second.
Suppose the dinner goes on like two very dear friends finding each other from the opposite sides of an enormous, stormy sea, still there for each other when needed, barely five minutes passed from the last time you heard from each other even if it was more like a month and a half.
Suppose the Chianti you get is a Reserve bottle two years older than the low-profile ribongia you ordered, thanks to a distracted waiter, thus greatly impairing your capability of mantaining your self-control and detachedness - and hers too, you can't help but notice. Suppose you carry on laughing and joking and generally being a very entertaining jester while also putting up an improvised class on the history of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict and the origins of Islam.
Suppose the Novello party of a contrada is very near, and being the Novello the first, youngest and deadliest of all wines of every year's crops, the place looks like a crossover between the antechamber of a Kafkian waiting room and a country fair. Suppose you both gladly fell prey to the Chianti, trying to manage one of the finest alcohol highs humanity will ever witness while strolling up and down the streets of Siena, a smoke and a laugh always behind the corner. And suppose you decide to plunge into the brainless crowd without a second thought.
Suppose that when you're not holding each other's forearm thrugh the crowd to reach the place to actually buy a Novello shot you're dancing and gesturing and buffooning into each other's face, oblivious of every other fucking zombie with a pulse this city is a perfect nest for. And suppose you're having one of the times of your life, every second a longer look into each other's eyes, every smile an unrecited promise, every touch a silent betrayal of a hope.
Suppose you both toss back at least five of the damn shots, fuel for your fun and for the illusion you don't want to end no matter what - at least, for your part.
And suppose the second you finally call it a night, after walking away from a minefield littered with empty wine bottles, empty paper cups and cigarette butts, feeling every step as a step less from your parting, you can't help but having a very creepy feeling as you step away from her shadow.
The feeling that says, you really thought this was behind you? You honestly believed time was on your side on this? You really thought that if you could forget all that happened inside you about her, I would as well?
And suppose you look up just as the last rethorical question hits your frontal lobes, right up, and up, and up some more, beyond the windows and the lowered shuts and the faint neon lights reflected on the concrete and the old, old stones of the pavement. A dark carpet with a thousands points of light hosts a wicked smile of a moon, as heartbreakingly beautiful as sincerely sardonical and ruthless, and there you have your answer, clearer than a hundred pages could spell it out or describe it for you. Suppose you realize you get it, and that you know, just know, that if you don't get something like that, you never will, no matter who explains it to you.
Suppose you ask yourself if this is something to be happy about.
Suppose you have lots of steps to take and lots of road to cover before you finally get the key into the door, and that every step you take that smile never hides itself behind a building, or a tree, or the indecent shroud of an artificial light. Always there, like a beacon pointing to your stupidity and naiveness and your dreams, as immortal as they will always be painful.
Suppose you finally decide to let this all out in a way of sort, typing it out of yourself as you would clean an infected wound, rejoicing for every stab of pain it - or maybe some other you - inflicts.
How would you feel?
What would you do?