Wine from paper cups
On this time last year I was on my way to Le General with my skinny escort walking tight, all 4 of us, on the wet sidewalk. It was a long walk with cold cigars smoke over our heads and light tears on our cheeks. We talked taking turns, so the walk was longer and from time to time boring, but never the less full of dreams as wet as the sidewalk. We never did get along on a specific subject, we always had different views on how one should behave at the toilet or in bed, but that was the magic of it all. Even so we took pictures of cars headlights with long exposure, that was something that we all agreed was fun.
I remember how we would hope for a place in the main room of Le General, or if the wind was worm for a place on the balcony. Here we could imagine us as dictators transforming the world in a better place, a place where Comic Sans was dead and Windows was a relic in the British museum.
At Le General it would be me, Ludmila, or “Sugar Lips Ludmila” as I called her, Andrew, Stew, Mr. White Russian, Long Island Ice Tea and Becks. All of us where a happy bunch in the mist of the place with dirty glasses, red snickers and red hair. The bartender was always our friend with new fellows in big or small cups to meet and enjoy.
We thought of our self as immortal until 50 years old, then we saw our self somewhere in Tahiti for the rest of our post eternity. Seeping wine from paper cups and hoping for nice weather under the trees with swinging monkeys in them.
Now, we hope for a door bell to ring and bring it all back to a mattress, open bottles and bad chicken. With wine from mugs and spliffs from God knows where.
November 5, 2009 3:31 am
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