Midnight Reveries

She walks into the room, dressed in pants and what at a glance seems to be a jacket. Both are the same colour, grey or maybe off-white, I don’t particularly remember. Both are the same colour, not as in similar, they are identical, she probably bought them as a set. I don’t remember the last time I saw someone dresses like that, oh yeah, maybe it’s a uniform or something, that would be a good excuse to dress like that. I don’t remember any more detail, after all, all I got was a glance. What held my attention though, in that glance were her shoes, black, leather, pointed, spiked short heel, so sharp they’d deflate your balls. Kinky, I love ‘em. Her hair is curly, tied severely at the back of her head, not too long, I’d guess about shoulder length, maybe a little more. She’s got thick black framed “stay the fuck out of my way” glasses on, the frames disappear as they venture behind her ears into her dense black hair.
She’s not particularly attractive but she’s got my attention all the same, only one glance though, that’s all.
I return to reading, El-Cid battling bull, an article on bullfights , written so exquisitely, that the accompanying image of El-Cid, thrusting his sword between the shoulder blades of the bull, large dark globules of blood, spurting, caught on film, seems like poetry in motion. God I wish I could write like that, it’s so fucking beautiful, I could cry.
I get up, the magazine is done, I head over to the rack and pull out another two. She’s sitting at a table now, absorbed, a pile of books at one side while she writes into a pad, occasionally looking at one lying open by her left hand, but I don’t notice any of that, I’m too busy ignoring her. I have to shift my seat, the aircon is directly above me, slow oscillating vents, blow lazy arcs of frigid air. Blowing cold my way every time El-Cid lances the bull, I surrender to a shiver.
Now I’m sitting with my back to the room, to her, focus again on my reading. I’ve been here two hours, reading for the most part, my eyes beg for mercy. I take off my glasses with a muted click on the soft plastic of the table. I close my eyes and I see her face. Not the girl in grey, but another, another I know so well. Four inches from mine I see it, look down the length of the nose into deep brown smiling eyes. Held at a hugs length, so close I can see the gentle fuzz on her upper lip. But the eyes continue smiling, taunting, daring me to make the next move, infinitely happy and content to remain four inches from my own. I remember them again as I ride, my bike leading me home, calm, even as my rear wheel slides out of control, an Audi, bearing down on my right, intent on swallowing me up. Smiling as I weave through traffic. I rise slowly out of my body, floating twenty feet above the tops of cars between which I perform an intricate dance, leaning left, leaning right, momentary flashes of red as I brake.
I’m home, fed sitting on my bike warming my bare feet on the engine of a friend, dark amber water, diluted with rum. My flat-mate is sitting with my laptop so I’m forced to kick it old school with a pad and pen. I’m focusing on my hand, the one on the right, twisted, gripping the pad while the one on the left scribbles intently. There’s a scab on the tip of the thumb from an incident with a kitchen knife, I’d pick at it, if only it didn’t bleed so much.
The last time it did was in the loo at work. I broke it open, brushing my hand against the rough nylon of my backpack. I stand, guiding the stream with my left hand, holding my fly open with two fingers of my right while my thumb drips scarlet into the urinal and dark red on the on the tiles. This is one of those automatic, self-flushing models, a contraption straight out of a Douglas Adams, a urinal that flushes when it sees fit not when required. I couldn’t be buggered, I’m in a hurry. I tuck my ID into my shirt and lean over the sink, washing my now bloody hand. Someone, concerned leans my way,
“What happened”, a cardinal sin, don’t talk in the loo.
“Umm.. nothing, an old wound opened up”
“Aah, then it didn’t happen right now in here toilet did it” Leaning back with a self satisfied smirk now that he’s established that there indeed are no thumb slicing monsters hiding in the shadows behind the urinals.
“…No”, honestly what else could I say.
I take a look at his face, It’s not one I recognize and I recognize everyone on my floor, I’m rushing out so I don’t manage to get a look at his ID for the ‘C’ for contractor. Wedging a wad of tissue between thumb and forefinger, I run down three floors to the eighth where security has a first-aid kit.
My neck hurts from leaning over to write, I put the notebook down and head in for a refill, planting my glass on the wreckage that is the kitchen counter, I measure out a drink, around me are the remnants of the macaroni and cheese that I passed off as pasta in white sauce, it doesn’t make a difference as my flat-mates haven’t heard of either and the finished product proves to be singularly unpopular. I’m left to finish off the mess, laden with cheese and tons of butter, I can feel my arteries clog, awesome, I loved it.
Writing now, all I can think of are the eyes, the black outline thick, a light brown, fading to green on the edges, I can feel them soft under my lips, firm under my tongue. I frame the face, jet black hair from the top and with my hands from underneath, between them a narrow face, retreating rapidly to a chin that ineffectually tries to hide all evidence of a dimple. I hold it four inches from my face, staring at it in cock-eyed clarity, beautiful.