Wine from paper cups
Somewhere in 2009 I was on my way to Le General with my skinny escort walking tight, all 5 of us, on the wet sidewalk. It was a long walk with cold cigar 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 nevertheless 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 fun part. Even so, we took photos of 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 at Le General, or if the wind was warm for a place on the balcony. Here we could imagine ourselves as dictators turning the world in a better place, a place where Comic Sans was dead and Windows was a relic in the British museum.
At the table it would be us, Mr. White Russian, Sir. Long Island Ice Tea and Becks Jr. We were a happy bunch in the mist of the place with dirty glasses, black sneakers and red hair. The bartender was always our friend with new folks in big or small glasses to meet and enjoy.
We thought of ourselves as immortal until 50 years old, then we saw ourselves somewhere in Tahiti for the rest of our post eternity. Sipping wine from paper cups and hoping for nice weather under the trees with swinging monkeys in them.
Now, we are still the same people with others joining slowly. We don’t sleep on mattresses and don’t eat bad chicken anymore. We open bottles of red wine everyday and imagine that some of as are part of a well known band and travel from stage to stage being immortal until we’re 30. We wear ironed shirts and dream of a day when we’ll be able to live without phones or alarm clocks, somewhere under a tree with swinging monkeys.
November 27, 2011 5:28 pm
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