The Strangers

She was sitting alone at the bar counter, indulging her fluttery eyes with Picture of Dorian Gray, carefully leafing through the pages with her porcelain, slender fingers while listening to the soft and mellow Bill Evans’ Blue in Green and slowly sipping her Soixante Quinze as it produces more cold mists on its glass.

He was there, alone as well– making his way towards the nymph with a light blue-coloured silk dress. The scent of expensive alcoholic drinks and cigarettes are wafting through the air, combined with the chatters and fine music revolving the room, and the pale lights and gloomy yet sophisticated interior…these things only made her standout, like Sir Ernest Cassel’s pink diamond on a Strawberries Arnaud.

The band kept playing, and it felt as if he was being pulled towards her on every note from the music and her fragrance. Lily, was the first note. Elegant, refined. A woman with a pure heart and full of aspirations. Iris. Second note. Dominator. A woman who is free-spirited, a wanderer. White musk, last but not the least, was the base note. Classic, mysterious. A woman with a mind as vast as the forest, and as deep as the ocean.

He found himself finally standing beside her, but his presence was of no significance to her realm.

“The books that the world calls immoral are books that show the world its own shame.” He said. At last, the woman folded the page and closed the book to grace him with a glance. He was pleased to see her smile so vividly.

“Not a sparrow falls to the ground without him seeing it…but if it falls, just the same. What good is seeing it fall?” She replied, and he chuckled. “The Mysterious Stranger by Mark Twain, his least known writing.” he answered. “Would you mind if a being out of the pages accompany you?” She smiled once again to reply, “not at all.”

He sat on the bar stool at the left side of the woman and called the bartender for a Martini. She placed the book on the other side and entertained her drink. She took a sip, and the man took his when the waiter handed the drink.

“Austen.” She said.

“Fitzgerald.” He answered.

“Chopin.”

“Debussy.”

“What a philanderer,” despite of such remark, she chuckled while he took a sip from his glass. “I can see it just by knowing your preferences.” She added.

“Milady, a romanticist and dignified one, why do you come here to read books knowing that you will encounter a ‘philanderer’ such as me?” he quoted.

She laughed, her eyes fluttered and bit her lip. “It’s not bad at all. But if you didn’t know Wilde nor Twain, my eyes wouldn’t leave my book.”

Their conversation started almost twelve midnight and ended at two in the morning, leaving both of them drunk and blabbering things that still made sense to them and not for others. They didn’t go back to their respective houses, instead, they went to a hotel, slowly held themselves between each other’s arms and swayed without music– just a drunken memory of the fine jazz from the bistro as their background.

Hands started to have their own will and wander, lips slowly reached out each other. They ended up peeling each other’s raiment and making love– to him, they were strangers just a few hours ago and are now completely open with one another, sharing the same thoughts, lust, rhythm, passion as if they were a single soul separated by fate only to find one another full in age and of wisdom.

Light came streaking through the oak-colored window blinds, bringing such intolerable agony in his eyes that caused him to wake up from a deep sleep. He rubbed his eyes, faced the other side of the bed only to find out she was no longer there.

He was back to reality indeed. The sound from the busy streets– cars honking from traffic, sound of people protesting against the parliament, the chugging sound from the nearby train.

Without her, the room looked very dull and dark, and cold with its monotonous colors of autumn. It felt, as if, he was not whole – he was missing something, and only she could complement him.

He roamed his eyes on the dreary environment and laid his eyes on the lamp table left with a note.

“There could have never been two hearts so open, no tastes so similar, no feelings so in unison, no countenances so beloved.”

Reading these words hurt him more, because the nymph with the light blue-coloured silk dress never opened her heart to him.

Not even a second.

 

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featured image source: cliqq.co.uk

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The Ink Eater

What a cold and dark night, I said to myself as I dally my fingers that stroked the curtain to reveal the nil environment outside the public carriage. There was nothing to see, even the grass and the trees and the marred soil from the wheels were completely devoured by the murk. The frail, dancing gleam from the candle light and the eerie, lone sound from the nag’s hooves created a rhythmic pattern that casts me into a slumber.

Eyes were starting to close, until I suddenly noticed the man sitting across me.

What a strange man, I thought. A huge man he is, wearing a black bowler hat, round spectacles and a coat but he did not remove these coverings even under the comfort of the carriage roof. He was clenching tight onto the newspaper and read the words nonstop ever since our voyage started.

Mumble, mumble, mumble. He muttered, almost as if chanting a prayer.

His pronunciation on the words were too cluttered and soft, and was overwhelmed by the sound of the wheels bumping against the rocks.

Curiosity creeped into me, I opened my mouth, and words came out.

“Excuse me, sir. I noticed you’ve been reading that newspaper for about an hour already. What does it say about today?”

And those big and stone-like fists lowered the newspaper. It revealed the face of the man with his dark spectacles. He tilted his face downward, and his eyes stared at me. To my surprise, they were like black beads, or like a bottomless pit. They made me feel consumed, as if they were pulling my soul away through my eyes. I managed to blink and take a gulp, and realized I was breathing heavily as if I was submerged deeply into the water.

The man tilted his head into its normal position and started to converse with me. He frowned and his forehead wrinkled. His voice was deep like those of old men. “Pardon me my fellow lad, I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Still in deep breaths, I responded. “What are you?”

“I am an ink eater.”

He quickly sensed confusion building up by noticing my wrinkled forehead. “Haven’t you heard of us before?”

I shook my head. He folded the newspaper and held it with his left hand.

“Well my fellow then let me explain to you our kind. We are also humans, but a different type. We feed on writings – on words typed with an ink on publications. ” He removed his spectacles, and it revealed its now-normal eyes.

“The only moment where our eyes turn black is when we eat.”

The fear in me subsided after hearing his story and after seeing his eyes.

“Eating words…what do they taste like?”

“Oh, the only way to know is to try eating some!”

The ink eater did tell me no more about their strange ways. He put back his spectacles, clenched back onto the newspaper and continued his meal.

 

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featured photo source: waterfordwhispersnews.com

Addiction

That afternoon was lazy. The rain was strong, and the only thing left to do is to cuddle with him at the couch as we share a small cozy blanket. He clasped my left hand with his right, and his face drew closer to mine.

“What am I to you?” he asked.

“Coffee,” I answered. “You’re the first thing I ever wanted to have in the morning, and the only one that I need to keep me awake.”

He chuckled.

“What am I to you?” I asked.

“Love, you’re a heroin to me.” he said. “I can’t live without you– you always take away the pain.”

 

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featured photo source: s5.favim.com