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Life Observed through Peek-Hole of Emotional Isolation
Do You Know that Woman?
She instantly regretted taking that second look in the mirror which seemed to have made more noticeable those lines around her mouth. It's been quite a while that she is referring to it as "mouth", not "lips" anymore, as lips have something sensual about them, which she prefers seeing as a theme belonging to those old photo albums now collecting dust. Along with a diary with stories that seem so strange now, as if describing someone else's life. Not this one for sure.
Oh, water is boiling for coffee; her third one today, or is it fourth? Well, there is something about the present chapter of her story that could be titled as "Nothing really matters" - and that would certainly make irrelevant the number of her coffees. Like a reliable friend-in-a-cup, coffee always readily shares those moments of her most secret thoughts.
No One to Offer Their Ears
What am I saying - all of her thoughts are secret, and now here is a deep and trembling sigh aroused by the thought that even if she wanted to make them less secret, there would be no one willing to hear them out.
Yeah, not that some of her friends would not listen, but they would not hear anything, and she is so painfully aware of the distinction. Even a village idiot can listen but can't really hear, and she would like - like so badly at least maybe once to be heard out.
Who would make a perfect listener, now she is wondering while rubbing the upper part of what she prefers calling mouth, after burning it with a little too brave sip. A stranger. A total stranger, someone that would disappear afterwards from her life and never have a chance to tell others. Maybe a stranger on a long ride on a train.
A Long Ride for a Long Story
Really long, long ride, because after the first few miles she could hardly cover that story about her first disappointment - that testing story, if you know what I mean, the one to check the stranger's interest. Surely not that last one in the string of pearls which might drill a hole in the poor listener's eardrums.
Is that why she keeps fast-forwarding that one in her mind now, leaving out some details, like those faked orgasms after discovering a lipstick on his collar. Hmm, maybe that's why lips better sound as mouth, who knows.
Crossing her legs now, as she always automatically does when he intrudes into her coffee mood, she can't remember how she parted with that stranger. Did they shake hands? Hugged maybe?
Is Everybody a Closed Book?
She felt her cheeks getting warm of embarrassment at the thought of what that good woman on the train could have thought of her after that spillage of her juicy stories. Wait, it never happened, and there is nothing to worry about. And no one will ever, ever hear all those details that are sitting so heavily on her paralyzed tongue every time someone is asking her to "tell more about herself".
Suddenly she got that familiar wave of loneliness covering her like a dark dome, as it dawned on her how all of her friends probably tell only selective stories about themselves, just like she always does. No one is an open book to anybody these days, or was it always like that? Maybe not, according to those romantic paperback novels lying on the side of her bed.
Oh, that Good Old Ricardo
Going easier on the last few sips of coffee, she doesn't know whether to feel more depressed or relieved by this realization. That's right, even those happily married couples probably spend a life time together never saying it all to each other. But wait, isn't that a kind of normal? It's not lying, it's only being tactful in nurturing a relationship.
Coffee was good, "good to the last drop", like that handsome latino Ricardo Montalban would have said in that old coffee commercial. She always thinks of him at that last and prolonged sip, the one that Freud would probably interpret as a "long kiss". Gee, was sex always on the mind of that dirty old man?
Sinking now in her lazy chair, she continues thinking how even the closets of good couples must have their skeletons, which, if ever came out would shatter the hell out of that romance.
Sincere like the Print in Greeting Cards
Indeed, how many times she would catch her mother giving dad - that perfect man - that certain look as if saying "Why don't you pass a stone or something?!" And those other times when her dad - well, maybe not exactly perfect man after all - snapping at her dear mom with not more than a look, but a "snapping kind".
Funny how the family friends would call them at every anniversary "the best couple on the face of earth", saying all those things about them that could only be found in greeting cards. Saying them probably in the same impersonal way as the cards do, not really caring.
Is that the way it's supposed to be? Did her last one maybe leave her because she expected a prince on a white horse always to be true, always share his deepest secrets?
Maybe Some Lasting Lies Would Do
Thinking of those better moments in her past relationships with a nostalgic sentiment - wouldn't she agree to settle for such a life, if a prince could only persist with his sweet lies, without his false crown rolling down the pillow after those initial romantic encounters?
Really, who cares about total sincerity, lies would be good enough, as long as he would find her worth lying to. Oh, the world is such a crappy bunch of idealists looking for the impossible to be delivered by beings that are simply not wired in their heads to produce it, and with roaming hearts mostly driven by the genital engine.
These curtains may be overdue for washing. Or maybe not. The less she sees through them, the less she wants to go out there, to face that world of thousand secrets where no one really knows anybody else.
A Bitter Pie of Expectations
That last long walk in the park gave her too much oxygen, which her stupid body interpreted as a "time for cleansing", giving her a nasty episode of anxiety, with all kinds of emotional crap welling up to discharge itself.
Body can be so unpredictable, just like people. Confused too, at times as if it doesn't know whether it's coming or going. O.K. Freud, it's not "coming" for sure, but hell if she knows where it is going.
Going older, going fatter, in other words, going nowhere in particular, staying right here where old and fat happens, as if predicted in the bible, along with all other disasters befalling the sinful offspring of a pure god.
Long ago she gave up asking god all those questions like "Why me?", because the devil himself would always jump into the conversation saying "Why not you? What makes you so special to be spared of a slice of my pie prepared especially for people like yourself who expect too much from others."
For a Happy Ending
Wait, does a woman like that actually exist, or is she merely a figment of imagination of an idle retiree having nothing better to think of? You bet she does exist. The world is so enormously huge place that you can imagine just about any kind of person, and sure enough, she lives somewhere. This very moment.
You could even fast-forward the story, and see her some years after that coffee. In that meantime, she happened to step on a brochure one morning while picking up her daily newspapers, just before the wind was about to blow it off her porch.
It was a brochure inviting all lonely people to a seminar. As you guessed, she attended and learned a lot of useful wise crap there, mostly about people wasting their time peeking out of the shell of their emotional isolation.
Can you believe, she even found herself a new husband with whom she bought a new, bigger house - with lots of closet space. You know what I mean, to accommodate all those skeletons, hers and his. And it was the happiest and spookiest couple in town for many years to come. - By the way, anyone got a spare closet for a rent?