Haircut

The writer is fascinated about the hair of his mistress. Black, silky, long, plausibly perfumed. He doesn’t recognize the brand of the perfume. Maybe she doesn’t use perfume in the first place and the scent is something natural. Something natural, something exotic. She lies beside him, spreading her hair wildly on the bed sheet. Black and white, the sharpest contrast. So sharp that it pierces the eyes a little bit. Her hair is like a black cataract, a black silk cataract. “Can I keep a lock of your hair? In memory of the beautiful days we had.” He knows she’s a keeper but deep inside his heart he knows he and her, it won’t last forever. There is nothing either black or white. Most often gray takes over. The moral gray zone. The relationship gray zone. The gray heavy sky pressing on the street strollers. So gray, so heavy that they cannot breathe. Gray is unbearable. Maybe that’s why the writer is fascinated about the black hair. The black hair won’t stay black forever. Flowers will wither and wrinkles will appear on her flawless skin. The writer wants to cut a lock of his mistress’ hair. When it’s still black. Cut it, do cut it when it’s still black. She won’t be young and beautiful forever.

Walk

It’s fascinating observing how people walk. In big cities people are always rushing to their next stop and they walk so rapidly that it almost seems like running. But are they always in a rush? Could it be that they are only avoiding the state of being in-between? Maybe not being in-between, but being torn-between. “Torn”, the past participle of “tear”. It’s not a coincidence that the word “tear” looks so much like the one we use for the liquid streaming down your face when you are sad. Could you stop crying please? He always begs. But if you are torn apart it’s hard to keep the tears from being shed. You want to feel better so you go for a walk. But except your footsteps you hardly feel anything. It’s almost like the world has stopped making sense to you. The sunlight is indifferent, the breeze indifferent as well, and the waiter in the café nonchalant. You keep on walking, ignoring everything you perceive (but do not pay attention to) hoping the mind will go blank. But the tears are shedding, you cannot help it. You are walking, torn by tears. He said, would you please please please please please stop crying please? “But I cannot help it,” said you. “I am sorry.” You folded the laptop and went out for a walk. You were walking alone. You almost always have to walk alone. There’s no other options.

He is dead, the beautiful youth

“He is dead, the beautiful youth.” Said the middle-aged woman, wiping her eyes. The small town was shocked. People were lining up in the flower shops. The funeral would take place in two days. Kids were crying on the street but the adults had no time to care for them. He was dead, the beautiful youth. And the town was shattered.

“How could this have happened?” people were furious, protesting in front of the town hall. The mayor was condemned and was forced to resign. “Did he not receive enough care? Did he not get enough water, enough food? How could this have happened?” the rage took over the town. People could not think reasonably for they lost the treasure of the town—he was dead, the beautiful youth.

“He’s better off this way.” Said a rebellious young man, immediately brought about the turmoil in the town hall. People were outraged. Some even started throwing stones at the speaker. “Tazio belongs to the venetian seashore.” Reasserted the young man. “He does not belong to the giant glass prison we built for him.” He dodged some more stones and walked away.

Tazio was the wonder of the city. When the town poet brought him back from Venice, the whole town was ardently in love with this beautiful creature at first sight. People were losing control and lining up for spending 20 seconds with the beautiful youth. Under extreme public pressure, the town poet had no choice but donate Tazio to the town.

It was not the only donation. People of the town donated tens and thousands of gold to build a palace for the befitting prince. It had to be made of glass so that the townspeople can watch him, worshipping his beauty any time, any day.

The Venetian prince died two months after the grand opening of the glass palace. He was dead, the beautiful youth. The town was inconsolable, for he was dead, the beautiful youth.

Sunlight

He was sitting on the bench in this small park, watching people come and go. Single mothers with a baby cart, gay couple with a lively golden retriever, kids playing baseball. They were all there to enjoy the sunlight of the mid spring in Berlin, whereas he was not.

He was born with this mysterious disease that subjected him to an extreme level of photosensitivity. He was never allowed to go to the beach for his skin started burning after five minutes’ exposure to sunlight. His all time nickname remained “mummy” or “the serial killer,” for he had always been covered with layers of clothing protecting him from the sunlight. One might exclaim: how pathetic to lead a life like that! Never being able to enjoy the sunlight! However, he didn’t find it a completely undesirable life. All he had to do was avoiding the sunlight and the night was full of wonders. He loved the very fact that while people stayed home at night, snoring on bed, he was the one out for adventures. He was the hero of the night. Lonesome maybe, but all heroes are lonesome.

Last night, as he was on his usual quest of outing at night, he met the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Sandy hair, gray eye, tempestuous smile, she was the goddess of the night. She did not care for him, just like all femme fatale treated men like dirt. She did, however, asked him to meet her up in the middle of the day: to show your sincerity, said she. “Then we’ll see how things work out.”

So there he was, sitting on the bench under the burning sunlight of the noon. He felt himself burning but he didn’t care, for it was no comparison with the burning desire that he wanted to see her again. 5 minutes, 10 minutes, 15 minutes. He felt himself shrinking, decaying, and finally, disappearing. She was nowhere to be seen. 20 minutes, he lost his sight, but it was ok, he could recognize her footsteps with his extremely sensitive ears. 25 minutes, he lost his hearing as well and she missed the appointment. 30 minutes, he could not feel his existence anymore. He wanted to cry out but lost his voice as well. 35 minutes, he vanished, left the world with a whimper. The goddess of the night was still nowhere to be seen.

“What’s that, Papa?” asked a little boy licking ice cream. “It’s a pile of dirty laundry. I can’t believe people just leave it here like that. Let’s go.” Said the father.

The sun was setting and people were leaving the park. The bench was empty except for the stack of shroud he left for the indifferent world.

Two Strangers On A Train

Man: Hello.

Woman: (taking off her earphone, looks up) Oh, hi! I haven’t seen you like forever. (nervous laughter)

Man: Whoever you think I am, I am not that guy. I’m just a stranger.

Woman: I thought you were some other friend of mine. So, what do you want, stranger?

Man: I don’t want anything.

Woman: I’m relieved. But then why are you talking to me?

Man: I have nothing better else to do.

Woman: (slightly offended) Well, thank YOU. and I guess that makes the two of us due to the very fact that I’m actually talking to you.

Man: I’m separated with my wife.

Woman: Well, I’m sorry.

Man: No you are not sorry. You don’t even know me.

Woman: But I suppose it’s a sad thing. After all, you must have been in love and that’s why you got married.

Man: No, we were not in love. I was in love, but all she wanted was the German citizenship.

Woman: And can you blame her on that! What is she?

Man: She’s North Korean. Pretty fucked-up country.

Woman: How did you manage to meet a North Korean in the first place?

Man: I found her on the street crying alone. She said her country abandoned her.

Woman: Sad story.

Man: Anyway we got married so that she wouldn’t get deported to this troubled country.

Woman: That’s very nice of you. Not everyone can do that.

Man: You never met her. The sad look of her eyes… I can go to hell for her.

Woman: I can believe that.

Man: But then she fell in love with this other guy.

Woman: I’m sorry to hear that.

Man: Don’t be. She’s better off this way.

Woman: How so?

Man: Because I have cancer.

Woman: Now I’m REALLY sorry to hear that.

Man: Don’t be.

Woman: Sorry?

Man: Cuz I’m fed up with my life anyways.

Woman: You know, there must be something still enjoyable in your life. Something.

Man: No there’s nothing.

Woman: I mean, for example, this chocolate croissant you are holding. It looks quite nice, isn’t it? Why don’t you take a bite?

Man: (takes a bite) It’s gone old.

Woman: I’m really sorry about that. Is there something I can do for you?

Man: Can you kill my ex-wife for me?

Woman: I’m sorry, that I can’t.

Man: Why do you keep saying sorry?

Woman: Why do you keep sharing sad stories?

Man: Are you accusing me of being oversharing?

Woman: Well, if you put it that way. I mean we don’t even know each other.

Man: But you look like my ex-wife.

Woman: Excuse me?

Man: She has long dark hair just like you do.

Woman: There are a lot of women with long dark hair here.

Man: But you are the one who looks like her. Tell me, why are you on this train?

Woman: I need to go to somewhere.

Man: Somewhere where?

Woman: I don’t feel obliged to tell you.

Man: You are cruel, just like my ex-wife.

Woman: I’m sorry about that.

Man: You just said you are sorry again.

Woman: And you are talking to me again.

Man: I’m sorry.

Woman: Look, mister. It’s a long ride. And if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to keep on reading.

Man: And I’ll shut up and eat my old chocolate croissant.

Woman: Whatever you want.

Man: (sits down, starts eating croissant)

Conductor: I’m sorry sir. Eating is prohibited in the U Bahn.

Man: (starts screaming nonstop)

Woman: Oh lord. (puts on her earphone again)

With Love

If you don’t feel the love, why do you put ‘with love’ in the end of a letter? Nobody likes to end a letter with an awkward silence and a lifeless signature, showing no traces of love or care or recognition. Nobody wants to be the heartless one that throws an abrupt closure right at someone else’s face. A letter with no proper closure is like slapping.  Slapping across the face in the middle of a busy street. Is there no good way of saying goodbye? If there is no good way of ending things why bother starting things in the first place?

With love, with love, is it some kind of a sarcasm that I cannot comprehend? Why don’t you write with hatred, with pains, with fury, with impatience or better yet, with indifference? “With love” is an oxymoron in a perfunctory letter. It’s a petty expression devoid of its literal connotation. When you put “with love” in the letter you are not being honest with yourself. But who cares about being true to oneself? This world is deceitful and full of vice. You put “with love” in the end of letter but could you please please please tell me, where is the love? 

The Café

She has this inability to stay in the library and that’s why she always goes out for a cup of coffee. A Café is where you get coffee. In French the coffee place and coffee is even the same word. Here you go again, says a voice in her head. She always throws those random facts to people when least expected. If you like coffee so much, why don't you become a barista? Asks the voice again. But the thing is as much as she is addicted to caffeine, she has no taste for coffee whatsoever. She always goes for the same order and the waiter starts to recognize her after a couple of times he starts ordering for her. She doesn’t mind. She never says no. She’s not in a café essentially for coffee anyway. She’s there to sit by the window and watch, maybe sometimes also being watched. In Berlin the glass window of a café tends to be huge. She likes the idea that even though she stays indoors she’s also part of the street. And sometimes people come to her and make weird faces. Drunk teenagers or funny young men. Sometimes she smiles back because she thinks it’s actually someone she knows since she’s terrible in terms of recognizing faces. But more often she feels awkward and hides her face behind the laptop. She might be voyeuristic but it’s another story being the object that’s being watched or maybe ridiculed.

She doesn’t come to a café; rather, she comes to The Café. The Café plays unobtrusive music and people there are quite. They don’t talk about far fetching business plans like people in Starbucks. People in The Café often come alone and she likes to imagine them to be artists. A melancholy writer, plausibly a junkie freshly out of rehab with a broken heart. She likes assigning stories to people. The Café is her menagerie with her being one of the performing animals. A menagerie that can be observed through a gigantic glass window. She’s part of them but at the same time she’s not part of them. But she knows she likes it. She likes The Café. She likes assigning stories to people she never met before and probably will never meet again. She is the flaneur who loses her street and willingly stays confined to The Café. She may not be a writer but she is a perfect reader. She likes The Café, the menagerie, and the stories.