Table by the Window - Part 2
For author's notes see Part 1
I know it is a pure coincidence that it was her face that has put the landslide into motion, and led me to this breakdown. No, call it breakthrough. The emotions, the thoughts, the feelings were brewing in darkness, somewhere on the very bottom of the pit. And they were apt to get out sooner or later, if ever I were to feel healed. I didn’t yet, but my mood was definitely lighter when I strolled into the cafe next evening and ordered a coffee, making it for a change café a latté with a tint of honey, instead of my normal double ristretto stuff. I even took with me a pair of scripts I had been planning to read through but hadn’t any stamina for till this day. In short, I felt invigorated and alive, and my walk through the night streets has been a satisfaction of and in itself: I’ve met few people (none of whom recognized myself - which is a rare treat), the air felt crisp and clear due to a strong wind and I always liked to feel wind in my hair and on my face… I knew the depression was not all over, and Kevin’s death as well as the thoughts of sheer fragility and futility of our lives would come to haunt me again… from time to time… but for now I was all set to enjoy the moment’s respite.
I knew, of course, that she was not there the first moment I came into the cafe. But settling there with my coffee, and scripts and all - her absence itched somewhere unexpectedly deep inside me as a tiny imperfectness in the otherwise perfect day. It was not as it should be. But, well, there was not much I could do about it, so I settled in my corner, stretched the legs, sipped a latte delighting in its silky taste on my tongue and opened the first script. It turned out inspired, full of witty turns and insightful character development, and even though I couldn’t picture myself as taking part in it (the only role I thought I’d have done was so far out of type that I felt that even my name could not induce the studio to cast me) I went on reading for the pure joy of the story, and got so engrossed that almost missed the moment when she came. It was the screechy sound of the chair-leg on the stone floor that informed me of her presence, and I glanced up, hiding surreptitiously behind my script, to see her setting the plate with an oversized sandwich beside the steaming full cup of a green-tea, then diving into her bag for what now seemed a sheaf-full of printed pages, then dropping the bag carelessly beside her chair (well, it was a fair-sized bag, man, you know, not one of those tiny feminine things the women favor, but most of the gals me and you know would nevertheless put it on the table, or hang across the back of the chair at the very least, but never, never-ever drop it right on the floor for fear it gets all dusty)…
But where was I?.. ah, yes, I really rejoiced in her showing up after all, and in my current exuberant mood, felt almost like standing up, coming to her table and telling… uh, telling… “I was down-trod and down-cast…” Pompous bullshit!.. “I felt depressed last night, you see…” No-no-no, not that either… “Thank you for being here last night”?.. oh, well, you see the problem. I was never good at those start-up lines. Whatever I could tell her seemed either too little or too much, and I could just imagine the look she would give me. Ah! If she gave me a look! At least the ghost of a smile I saw on her face when she looked in my direction last evening. But she continued busily reading her pages - munched on her sandwich without once rising her eyes from the text… and so I sobered, and went back to my own papers, namely - the scripts. Have you ever thought about the impulses we have, but never put to the test, never try to act on them the consequences be darned? The possibilities lost and never to be found? Oh, fuck it, I cannot imagine what would have happened if I acted on this one. Would we have found what to talk about? Become friends? Would she have thought me mad? Jumped up and left the cafe never to return again, and all this story wouldn’t ever get started?.. But when the moment passes, the impulse safely subdued and pushed into the back of subconscious, it sort of sets the pattern for the future events, and you find yourself driving within your lane, and even may you wish to turn, the line is unbroken, and it gets harder to get out of it the longer you drive along… So I returned to my script, but the text didn’t seem to hold my attention just as much as it had before, so I glanced up from time to time and - instead - studied a change of expressions on her face as she read hers.
After that the days seemed to flow in a smooth routine. My exuberance faded, as I suspected it had to, and I succumbed to something better described as semi-depression, meaning that I was not yet ready for outright carousing nor public attention, but at least could once again concentrate on the reality around me… and on my work. Judging that it was better not to allow myself too much of a free time lest I loose it again, I accepted the second script which was not nearly as fun as the first, but the character I’d been offered was well-developed and the plot fresh enough to guarantee a modicum of interest on my side. The filming was due to begin in Philadelphia two months after the scheduled end of my current project, and often going to the café at night I would bring the notes - part of my habitual preparation for every upcoming movie, and sit there looking through them, writing down the ideas I wanted to discuss with the director, or just pretending to do that, while in fact watching her, copiously bent over her work.
And know what, man… it started all as a game. Watching her, trying to figure out who and what she was, inventing theories about her profession and possible nature of her writing… Was she a journalist? (For understandable reasons I didn’t want her to be) A copywriter? Did she write novels? Maybe scripts? Maybe unknowingly I had or will be one day taking part in a movie based on her story? (That was my favorite) Then again, she could be some kind of scientist of humanitarian ilk, say, psychologist or philologist working on a dissertation or a book. But somehow I did not believe it. The way she looked into the distance, lips moving in a silent monologue, the way she lowered her head, fingertips pressed tightly to the forehead, rubbing the bridge of her nose, searching for words, the way she angrily put both hands through her hair, ruffling them mercilessly… This gesture long seemed so familiar to me until I realized - it was mine! It was exactly how I would put my hands through my hair, having been asked an especially hard question, when the words would not come…
Ah, the hair, the hair… she didn’t seem to be paying much attention to it… as time went by, I’ve seen it freshly washed, raising as a light-brown halo around her head, I’ve seen it tiredly hanging after a long and hot day, all tousled by the wind, plastered to her forehead when she came in from under the rain, then in some hours springing up in those gentle curls… I’ve seen it grow… Have you ever noticed how the hair grows on anyone beside yourself? When you can swear - only yesterday it barely reached to the top of her ear, and now - see - it nearly covers it? Then it grows too long and you see her getting annoyed, it falling over her eyes and obscuring the vision, until she sends it flying back with an impatient toss of her head… Then she resorted to wearing a tiny clip to hold it out of the eyes, giving her this childish and unbearably cute look… Then, and it was almost the shock of my life, she cut it short - and I felt betrayed, I almost felt I do not know this person anymore - it changed her so (that’s what I’ve already told about her face, it was of the kind that could be changed immensely by a simple hair-cut). It took some getting used to, seeking reassurance in the familiar gestures, it took some time… but then it grew, gradually assuming the previous length, and I figured - this was her style - to let it grow to the point of getting out of hand, then have it cut, then let it grow again - and settled to watch it go through the stages I missed on the first time…
But you see? You see? And the way it was with the hair - it was with every little feature of her, little mannerism, little gesture…I knew them by heart. I still could figure next to nothing about her real life - was she single? divorced? did she work somewhere by day? was she living alone? did she have children? parents? - but instead I have developed an uncanny ability to tell her mood from the signs so unnoticeable I was not sure if I was imagining things, or indeed - projecting again… Oh yes, projecting… that was always a possibility…
But there must have been more than just projecting behind my ability to read her moods. In fact I found it highly educational for me as an actor to learn of all the miniscule movements that went into conveying this or that emotion. All the clenching-relaxing of tiny muscles of human face. All the subtle changes indicative of coming smile, growing frustration, sadness hidden behind an amusement or indeed of a forming headache, and I’d bet I knew she was getting a cold before she felt it herself. It looked like her nose has grown just a little bit longer. No, don’t laugh! Was probably just an illusion, the muscles around it less mobile because of the inner swelling, the shadows under eyes more pronounced than the night before. In the real life (and by that I mean the life that I led by day - not this strange and misty twilight existence of the cafe interior), in the real life we rarely have the time and desire to watch others’ faces long or closely enough to discern the mechanics of how a mood is conveyed. That’s why we, the actors, so often have to overdo the mimics, even filming a close-up which calls for a more subtle expression. So it was helpful indeed, and I happily persuaded myself that I was doing research. For my work, you know? We are so apt at rationalizing our actions, reactions, behavior, whatever… Playing games of delusion… Anything - but to admit the truth.
So like it or not - I wasn’t finding anything strange in all of this. Even when I found myself leaving the café a little bit earlier and lurking hidden behind the nearest corner - just to know where she would turn on the intersection… nay, fully intending to follow her wherever she went - at a distance - allegedly just to know nothing happened to her on the dark streets…. What a bullshit! She must have gone this route time and time again before that night… But only a bitter and sorely unwelcome realization of what I was doing (stalking! stalking as I myself had been stalked!) stopped me cold in my tracks.
Nor was she an easy object to stalk I must admit. Some days I’d come to the café to find her already there, several stubs in her ashtray showing she’d been working a fair time. Some days I’d squirm in place for an hour or more, restless and worrying in turns about her safety, health and whatever could have happened to her in the wild outside world, until I would spot her figure nearing down the street in a brisk unladylike gait. Most nights she would come by foot, but now and then arrived in a dark blue car, old-fashioned but beautifully up-kept, a convertible just old enough it could have equally been a treasured collectors item or a beloved family friend. You see that’s how it was with all about her - as with this car. Nothing was positive, nothing but what I imagined, projected or seemed to perceive in truth. And the ambiguity was killing me, deep inside.
The same applied to her clothes, grungy and maddeningly concealing that they were - I had come to know them, every single item firmly associating with the mental image I formed of her. And when one day she suddenly appeared in what did genuinely look like a designer suit, it was almost like a cultural shock for me, as with the hair before. It wasn’t that she looked bad in it… nay, she looked great… but it was like an unpleasant reminder that I didn’t really know the person behind this suit. Guess, it might have been my actor-self speaking again, and something I could never explain to the numerous women in my life, especially those who felt that they had the right to advise me, starting with my mother, my press-assistant etc., that contrary to their opinion, my dressing and living style in between the filmings was not just a simple sloppiness or lack of care, but a conscious effort to return to my real self, to define again what was “me” and separate it from the personality of the character I just played. So you see, for me her formless skirts, her mousy cardigans with stretched sleeves, which she impatiently pushed up over the elbows, her sneakers and flats - were part of the image I was building deep in my head and mind. And even though I was grateful for this godsend opportunity to view her ankles (ah! as narrow and strong as her supple wrists), hmm, indeed even up to the knees at times, still the high-heels seemed like a sacrilege - now sue me, but so they did.
I do not like to remember that evening… not only because of the suit. But remembered it should be - if as an illustration for how used I had become to those evenings together but still apart, if as an indicator of how deep I had come to care about her… though I didn’t, wouldn’t admit it to myself - covering up with theories and excuses as long as I only could.
She came by car, pretty late, even after I arrived there myself having slipped out of the premiere-party, where I had been invited by one of my indie-director-pals. The movie was good, but then I have already seen it at one of the early screenings, I was in no way whatsoever connected with this project, and my invitation was clearly only an attempt to get the premiere some extra-coverage. Normally I wouldn’t mind, if only the press wasn’t at its most obnoxious tonight, and I - not so tired after a long and physically draining day at the set. As a result by the time I considered the duty of a friend fulfilled, I was moody and uncomfortably inebriated, in the worst way - when you feel slow and heavy and sleepy and loose the train of your thoughts - even though I didn’t have more than a couple of glasses of wine throughout the evening. Should have probably gone home straight afterwards, and the fact that I didn’t shows just how very addicted I have become. But what with my luck that day - she wasn’t yet there.
Then, as already mentioned, she did arrive, bringing her car to an uncharacteristically abrupt halt before the café - she was usually so careful when parking the car, so careful when closing the door - now she slammed it shut. Blame it on the inhibited reaction but in those first moments I recognized more the car than herself in that green-blue-grey (is this - what they call “teal”?) stylish outfit that she wore. Her walk was still brisk, even with the heels, and she would have looked real smart - in an upscale manager sort of style - as she marched into the café, not to her place directly, but to the bar, and spoke to the barman - hands flailing, gestures overemphatic and tense - if I couldn’t feel a nervous energy in the way she moved, nasty restlessness akin to the one that would make me jump on the motorcycle and rev away in the night till the energy’s spent and whatever demons had caused it - are laid to rest. To my moody slumber her overflowing energy felt as a sound of nails on glass. Which accidentally meant that I was not projecting, at least not always, cause our moods that night were as differing as they come.
The barman, stumbling around as groggily as I felt, produced a bottle of wine she presumably asked for. A good one at that - all dust-covered, as no one in this rat-hole, not even me, would think to order its kind. Not because I couldn’t afford it, but it just felt so drastically out of mood and style of this place. Compared to her he seemed to be moving in really slow mo - languidly half-filling a glass for her to probe - as if his batteries were nearly running out - so in the end she just snatched the bottle from out of his hand, filled the tumbler to brimming edge and downed in a single gulp. What a waste of good wine… But look who’s speaking! As if I hadn’t wasted even finer bottles like this myself.
After that she finally settled behind her table - glass and bottle at hand, and in the next half hour proceeded to purposefully get herself drunk… or maybe I should say - try to get drunk, for never before in my life had I seen a woman down a bottle of wine in so short a time and NOT get a bit of release - her face still set, cheekbones tight with tension, eyes glistening with the bare suffering of a person who would like to cry out - but cannot make tears flow - however she tries.
I watched her surreptitiously, feeling as an intruder for the first time since the earliest days, aching to come and comfort her however I could, knowing that sometimes a simple humane gesture can make the tension snap into desired relief. But somehow I felt that of all times - right now - I didn’t have the right. No right to come to her, no right even to watch as a silent witness - an amorphous stoned counterpart to her high-wired vibrancy of pain. And of all the remembrances of that evening - that helplessness - is one sure bitch.
Meanwhile, sitting still was becoming impossible for her - so she jumped back up - slight staggering the only sign of the drunken wine - out of the café, to her car… as I silently prayed that something, anything will stop her from getting behind the wheel… for I wouldn’t bear it if something happened to her… too… not again… not ever again… Call me mystic, but I’m still sure that my prayer had something to do with what happened next, though - more probably - it should have been blamed on her state of mind at the moment she’d been getting out of the car, not to say that the same thing had happened to me many times before - that’s why I prefer the motorcycles, right? Right. She had closed the keys inside. I checked them afterwards, at the moment I was just guessing as I saw a mad dance of kicking and stomping and punching she gave to the closed car, heels breaking, shoes thrown flying away in the night on a wide arch…. I saw her - through the window but clear enough in the light of a nearby street-lamp - as she stopped abruptly and stood there barefoot under the starting rain - fury spent, tension released and the tears that finally came - a purest bliss and a miracle…
Of all the nights this was probably the one when I could have and maybe should have followed her to her home without any qualms, for she hardly noticed the road as off she went, an incongruous figure in her stylish costume and stocking feet - a ready bait for all the menace out there in the dark of night. But I lingered too long, and the moment passed - yet another time, for she had turned the corner and was nowhere to be seen.
I never learnt what was it that prompted the breakdown of that night, the next evening she was already sitting in her place, dressed in her usual attire and seemingly none the worse for the excesses and tears of last night, as I hurried into the café, having spent all day long worrying about whether she had got home alright. Of course, already coming to it I saw that the car was not parked there any more, so she must have come for it earlier in the day, or called the mechanic, but seeing her safe and sound with my own eyes washed over me as a welcome relief.
Continued in - Part 3
I know it is a pure coincidence that it was her face that has put the landslide into motion, and led me to this breakdown. No, call it breakthrough. The emotions, the thoughts, the feelings were brewing in darkness, somewhere on the very bottom of the pit. And they were apt to get out sooner or later, if ever I were to feel healed. I didn’t yet, but my mood was definitely lighter when I strolled into the cafe next evening and ordered a coffee, making it for a change café a latté with a tint of honey, instead of my normal double ristretto stuff. I even took with me a pair of scripts I had been planning to read through but hadn’t any stamina for till this day. In short, I felt invigorated and alive, and my walk through the night streets has been a satisfaction of and in itself: I’ve met few people (none of whom recognized myself - which is a rare treat), the air felt crisp and clear due to a strong wind and I always liked to feel wind in my hair and on my face… I knew the depression was not all over, and Kevin’s death as well as the thoughts of sheer fragility and futility of our lives would come to haunt me again… from time to time… but for now I was all set to enjoy the moment’s respite.
I knew, of course, that she was not there the first moment I came into the cafe. But settling there with my coffee, and scripts and all - her absence itched somewhere unexpectedly deep inside me as a tiny imperfectness in the otherwise perfect day. It was not as it should be. But, well, there was not much I could do about it, so I settled in my corner, stretched the legs, sipped a latte delighting in its silky taste on my tongue and opened the first script. It turned out inspired, full of witty turns and insightful character development, and even though I couldn’t picture myself as taking part in it (the only role I thought I’d have done was so far out of type that I felt that even my name could not induce the studio to cast me) I went on reading for the pure joy of the story, and got so engrossed that almost missed the moment when she came. It was the screechy sound of the chair-leg on the stone floor that informed me of her presence, and I glanced up, hiding surreptitiously behind my script, to see her setting the plate with an oversized sandwich beside the steaming full cup of a green-tea, then diving into her bag for what now seemed a sheaf-full of printed pages, then dropping the bag carelessly beside her chair (well, it was a fair-sized bag, man, you know, not one of those tiny feminine things the women favor, but most of the gals me and you know would nevertheless put it on the table, or hang across the back of the chair at the very least, but never, never-ever drop it right on the floor for fear it gets all dusty)…
But where was I?.. ah, yes, I really rejoiced in her showing up after all, and in my current exuberant mood, felt almost like standing up, coming to her table and telling… uh, telling… “I was down-trod and down-cast…” Pompous bullshit!.. “I felt depressed last night, you see…” No-no-no, not that either… “Thank you for being here last night”?.. oh, well, you see the problem. I was never good at those start-up lines. Whatever I could tell her seemed either too little or too much, and I could just imagine the look she would give me. Ah! If she gave me a look! At least the ghost of a smile I saw on her face when she looked in my direction last evening. But she continued busily reading her pages - munched on her sandwich without once rising her eyes from the text… and so I sobered, and went back to my own papers, namely - the scripts. Have you ever thought about the impulses we have, but never put to the test, never try to act on them the consequences be darned? The possibilities lost and never to be found? Oh, fuck it, I cannot imagine what would have happened if I acted on this one. Would we have found what to talk about? Become friends? Would she have thought me mad? Jumped up and left the cafe never to return again, and all this story wouldn’t ever get started?.. But when the moment passes, the impulse safely subdued and pushed into the back of subconscious, it sort of sets the pattern for the future events, and you find yourself driving within your lane, and even may you wish to turn, the line is unbroken, and it gets harder to get out of it the longer you drive along… So I returned to my script, but the text didn’t seem to hold my attention just as much as it had before, so I glanced up from time to time and - instead - studied a change of expressions on her face as she read hers.
After that the days seemed to flow in a smooth routine. My exuberance faded, as I suspected it had to, and I succumbed to something better described as semi-depression, meaning that I was not yet ready for outright carousing nor public attention, but at least could once again concentrate on the reality around me… and on my work. Judging that it was better not to allow myself too much of a free time lest I loose it again, I accepted the second script which was not nearly as fun as the first, but the character I’d been offered was well-developed and the plot fresh enough to guarantee a modicum of interest on my side. The filming was due to begin in Philadelphia two months after the scheduled end of my current project, and often going to the café at night I would bring the notes - part of my habitual preparation for every upcoming movie, and sit there looking through them, writing down the ideas I wanted to discuss with the director, or just pretending to do that, while in fact watching her, copiously bent over her work.
And know what, man… it started all as a game. Watching her, trying to figure out who and what she was, inventing theories about her profession and possible nature of her writing… Was she a journalist? (For understandable reasons I didn’t want her to be) A copywriter? Did she write novels? Maybe scripts? Maybe unknowingly I had or will be one day taking part in a movie based on her story? (That was my favorite) Then again, she could be some kind of scientist of humanitarian ilk, say, psychologist or philologist working on a dissertation or a book. But somehow I did not believe it. The way she looked into the distance, lips moving in a silent monologue, the way she lowered her head, fingertips pressed tightly to the forehead, rubbing the bridge of her nose, searching for words, the way she angrily put both hands through her hair, ruffling them mercilessly… This gesture long seemed so familiar to me until I realized - it was mine! It was exactly how I would put my hands through my hair, having been asked an especially hard question, when the words would not come…
Ah, the hair, the hair… she didn’t seem to be paying much attention to it… as time went by, I’ve seen it freshly washed, raising as a light-brown halo around her head, I’ve seen it tiredly hanging after a long and hot day, all tousled by the wind, plastered to her forehead when she came in from under the rain, then in some hours springing up in those gentle curls… I’ve seen it grow… Have you ever noticed how the hair grows on anyone beside yourself? When you can swear - only yesterday it barely reached to the top of her ear, and now - see - it nearly covers it? Then it grows too long and you see her getting annoyed, it falling over her eyes and obscuring the vision, until she sends it flying back with an impatient toss of her head… Then she resorted to wearing a tiny clip to hold it out of the eyes, giving her this childish and unbearably cute look… Then, and it was almost the shock of my life, she cut it short - and I felt betrayed, I almost felt I do not know this person anymore - it changed her so (that’s what I’ve already told about her face, it was of the kind that could be changed immensely by a simple hair-cut). It took some getting used to, seeking reassurance in the familiar gestures, it took some time… but then it grew, gradually assuming the previous length, and I figured - this was her style - to let it grow to the point of getting out of hand, then have it cut, then let it grow again - and settled to watch it go through the stages I missed on the first time…
But you see? You see? And the way it was with the hair - it was with every little feature of her, little mannerism, little gesture…I knew them by heart. I still could figure next to nothing about her real life - was she single? divorced? did she work somewhere by day? was she living alone? did she have children? parents? - but instead I have developed an uncanny ability to tell her mood from the signs so unnoticeable I was not sure if I was imagining things, or indeed - projecting again… Oh yes, projecting… that was always a possibility…
But there must have been more than just projecting behind my ability to read her moods. In fact I found it highly educational for me as an actor to learn of all the miniscule movements that went into conveying this or that emotion. All the clenching-relaxing of tiny muscles of human face. All the subtle changes indicative of coming smile, growing frustration, sadness hidden behind an amusement or indeed of a forming headache, and I’d bet I knew she was getting a cold before she felt it herself. It looked like her nose has grown just a little bit longer. No, don’t laugh! Was probably just an illusion, the muscles around it less mobile because of the inner swelling, the shadows under eyes more pronounced than the night before. In the real life (and by that I mean the life that I led by day - not this strange and misty twilight existence of the cafe interior), in the real life we rarely have the time and desire to watch others’ faces long or closely enough to discern the mechanics of how a mood is conveyed. That’s why we, the actors, so often have to overdo the mimics, even filming a close-up which calls for a more subtle expression. So it was helpful indeed, and I happily persuaded myself that I was doing research. For my work, you know? We are so apt at rationalizing our actions, reactions, behavior, whatever… Playing games of delusion… Anything - but to admit the truth.
So like it or not - I wasn’t finding anything strange in all of this. Even when I found myself leaving the café a little bit earlier and lurking hidden behind the nearest corner - just to know where she would turn on the intersection… nay, fully intending to follow her wherever she went - at a distance - allegedly just to know nothing happened to her on the dark streets…. What a bullshit! She must have gone this route time and time again before that night… But only a bitter and sorely unwelcome realization of what I was doing (stalking! stalking as I myself had been stalked!) stopped me cold in my tracks.
Nor was she an easy object to stalk I must admit. Some days I’d come to the café to find her already there, several stubs in her ashtray showing she’d been working a fair time. Some days I’d squirm in place for an hour or more, restless and worrying in turns about her safety, health and whatever could have happened to her in the wild outside world, until I would spot her figure nearing down the street in a brisk unladylike gait. Most nights she would come by foot, but now and then arrived in a dark blue car, old-fashioned but beautifully up-kept, a convertible just old enough it could have equally been a treasured collectors item or a beloved family friend. You see that’s how it was with all about her - as with this car. Nothing was positive, nothing but what I imagined, projected or seemed to perceive in truth. And the ambiguity was killing me, deep inside.
The same applied to her clothes, grungy and maddeningly concealing that they were - I had come to know them, every single item firmly associating with the mental image I formed of her. And when one day she suddenly appeared in what did genuinely look like a designer suit, it was almost like a cultural shock for me, as with the hair before. It wasn’t that she looked bad in it… nay, she looked great… but it was like an unpleasant reminder that I didn’t really know the person behind this suit. Guess, it might have been my actor-self speaking again, and something I could never explain to the numerous women in my life, especially those who felt that they had the right to advise me, starting with my mother, my press-assistant etc., that contrary to their opinion, my dressing and living style in between the filmings was not just a simple sloppiness or lack of care, but a conscious effort to return to my real self, to define again what was “me” and separate it from the personality of the character I just played. So you see, for me her formless skirts, her mousy cardigans with stretched sleeves, which she impatiently pushed up over the elbows, her sneakers and flats - were part of the image I was building deep in my head and mind. And even though I was grateful for this godsend opportunity to view her ankles (ah! as narrow and strong as her supple wrists), hmm, indeed even up to the knees at times, still the high-heels seemed like a sacrilege - now sue me, but so they did.
I do not like to remember that evening… not only because of the suit. But remembered it should be - if as an illustration for how used I had become to those evenings together but still apart, if as an indicator of how deep I had come to care about her… though I didn’t, wouldn’t admit it to myself - covering up with theories and excuses as long as I only could.
She came by car, pretty late, even after I arrived there myself having slipped out of the premiere-party, where I had been invited by one of my indie-director-pals. The movie was good, but then I have already seen it at one of the early screenings, I was in no way whatsoever connected with this project, and my invitation was clearly only an attempt to get the premiere some extra-coverage. Normally I wouldn’t mind, if only the press wasn’t at its most obnoxious tonight, and I - not so tired after a long and physically draining day at the set. As a result by the time I considered the duty of a friend fulfilled, I was moody and uncomfortably inebriated, in the worst way - when you feel slow and heavy and sleepy and loose the train of your thoughts - even though I didn’t have more than a couple of glasses of wine throughout the evening. Should have probably gone home straight afterwards, and the fact that I didn’t shows just how very addicted I have become. But what with my luck that day - she wasn’t yet there.
Then, as already mentioned, she did arrive, bringing her car to an uncharacteristically abrupt halt before the café - she was usually so careful when parking the car, so careful when closing the door - now she slammed it shut. Blame it on the inhibited reaction but in those first moments I recognized more the car than herself in that green-blue-grey (is this - what they call “teal”?) stylish outfit that she wore. Her walk was still brisk, even with the heels, and she would have looked real smart - in an upscale manager sort of style - as she marched into the café, not to her place directly, but to the bar, and spoke to the barman - hands flailing, gestures overemphatic and tense - if I couldn’t feel a nervous energy in the way she moved, nasty restlessness akin to the one that would make me jump on the motorcycle and rev away in the night till the energy’s spent and whatever demons had caused it - are laid to rest. To my moody slumber her overflowing energy felt as a sound of nails on glass. Which accidentally meant that I was not projecting, at least not always, cause our moods that night were as differing as they come.
The barman, stumbling around as groggily as I felt, produced a bottle of wine she presumably asked for. A good one at that - all dust-covered, as no one in this rat-hole, not even me, would think to order its kind. Not because I couldn’t afford it, but it just felt so drastically out of mood and style of this place. Compared to her he seemed to be moving in really slow mo - languidly half-filling a glass for her to probe - as if his batteries were nearly running out - so in the end she just snatched the bottle from out of his hand, filled the tumbler to brimming edge and downed in a single gulp. What a waste of good wine… But look who’s speaking! As if I hadn’t wasted even finer bottles like this myself.
After that she finally settled behind her table - glass and bottle at hand, and in the next half hour proceeded to purposefully get herself drunk… or maybe I should say - try to get drunk, for never before in my life had I seen a woman down a bottle of wine in so short a time and NOT get a bit of release - her face still set, cheekbones tight with tension, eyes glistening with the bare suffering of a person who would like to cry out - but cannot make tears flow - however she tries.
I watched her surreptitiously, feeling as an intruder for the first time since the earliest days, aching to come and comfort her however I could, knowing that sometimes a simple humane gesture can make the tension snap into desired relief. But somehow I felt that of all times - right now - I didn’t have the right. No right to come to her, no right even to watch as a silent witness - an amorphous stoned counterpart to her high-wired vibrancy of pain. And of all the remembrances of that evening - that helplessness - is one sure bitch.
Meanwhile, sitting still was becoming impossible for her - so she jumped back up - slight staggering the only sign of the drunken wine - out of the café, to her car… as I silently prayed that something, anything will stop her from getting behind the wheel… for I wouldn’t bear it if something happened to her… too… not again… not ever again… Call me mystic, but I’m still sure that my prayer had something to do with what happened next, though - more probably - it should have been blamed on her state of mind at the moment she’d been getting out of the car, not to say that the same thing had happened to me many times before - that’s why I prefer the motorcycles, right? Right. She had closed the keys inside. I checked them afterwards, at the moment I was just guessing as I saw a mad dance of kicking and stomping and punching she gave to the closed car, heels breaking, shoes thrown flying away in the night on a wide arch…. I saw her - through the window but clear enough in the light of a nearby street-lamp - as she stopped abruptly and stood there barefoot under the starting rain - fury spent, tension released and the tears that finally came - a purest bliss and a miracle…
Of all the nights this was probably the one when I could have and maybe should have followed her to her home without any qualms, for she hardly noticed the road as off she went, an incongruous figure in her stylish costume and stocking feet - a ready bait for all the menace out there in the dark of night. But I lingered too long, and the moment passed - yet another time, for she had turned the corner and was nowhere to be seen.
I never learnt what was it that prompted the breakdown of that night, the next evening she was already sitting in her place, dressed in her usual attire and seemingly none the worse for the excesses and tears of last night, as I hurried into the café, having spent all day long worrying about whether she had got home alright. Of course, already coming to it I saw that the car was not parked there any more, so she must have come for it earlier in the day, or called the mechanic, but seeing her safe and sound with my own eyes washed over me as a welcome relief.
Continued in - Part 3