Beneath the candlelight that dances with the rain, the storm, the shadows are the only company left. The electricity flickered shut more than twenty four hours ago, my Ipod not charged, the cellular phone near its death.
There’s comfort with only the wind and its gestures, the rain and its pitter patter on the roof, no soul around, no alcohol to be intoxicated with, no drug to be high on, just a quasi primitive, hollow boned existence. The darkness that envelopes the street spills through my window, trying to eat away the remaining light left, but the brave candle keeps holding, and I’m guessing it would keep holding on until morning, five or six hours away – same as the exact time for dreams to travel and occur underneath the back of our heads to the forefront of the lobes of our brain. But for now, I only sit inside, with, beside, under the near dark of pitch black, thinking and swaying with the thoughts that ravage me and the land of waking sleep.
I think of you.
How are you? I think. Do you still have your ailing health? A soft knock at my window pane by shadowy fingers prove me otherwise.
You’re there, trying to take me away into the dark, baiting me with promises of cigarettes and toys and love and blood. That slick black hair, blacker than the night without electricity, drenched to its pores, hanging down to your shoulders, are longer since I last saw them, since I forgotten them, a long time ago.
“Tu privire drăguţ,” I say.
“Tu privire sănătate, nu mai mult rat sînge?” you ask, “Dacă you’re nu venire, a putea I cel puţin intră?”
Ah, that is just classic. Straight from textbook definitions. That is so you. But you’re forgetting something.
I try to search for your eyes and gaze straight into them when I say this, because I won’t utter any words, and gazes work best for hours like these (it’s in the manual, look it up) – I shake my head. No.
Even cloaked in blackness, I see you’re unsurprised. Only disappointed. A frown ready to be a scowl is etched on that young, ageless, mouth.
Sinking back to my chair, an uncomfortable couch with its metal body almost protruding through its cushion flesh, only the brave candle as guide, I dig the ashtray for a half smoked cigarette. Time has gone slower, judging by how the wax melts to its glass holder, forming a soft, hot puddle on the wooden floor: five hours until morning. I’m growing hungry but I light my cigarette instead, then I look at you, still with a scowl ready to be a frown, ‘sif you’re ready to cut your teeth. Are you?
“A face Eu am la spre drag al tău pitiful carcass spate casă? Sau voi I unic bring al tău cap?” you say with much gusto, with much anger, with much spite between letters and words and sentences and spit.
You’re getting good at that, netting thoughts, this city with dark alleys and darker souls train us well. But you’re forgetting something. And you still ask too many questions that try too hard to be ironic.
I wait for a moment to answer, savoring the drama of the low light, ambience, and the howling wind. The storm is drawing to a close but it’s still as furious as you.
“Cum eşti mergi la a face that , cu prayers? UN thousand Our Tată? UN moară Hail Maria? UN notă de plată Glory A fis?” I say to you with a triumphant smirk, adding, “This isn’t confession tînăr fată. You’re departe away de la biserică.”
“Ce kind de viaţă eşti tu viu? Don’t tu ai orice şampon? Feasting on mai mic things şi a aduce cadou as cursor?” you shoot back. This, much to my amusement, sounds rehearsed. Oh how many times have I heard this before?
“Tu trebiue have chemare. Sau tu a putut have text mesaj eu. I folos un mobile telefon acum. It has un aparat de fotografiat şi un expandable memorie pentru muzică şi tablou. Tu know trying la spre a păstra sus cu art.hot. timp,” I calmly answer.
You instead put your hands on your waist. Your curves could send any man blind and sinful just by mere thought. You do look better since almost being poisoned by our tainted livestock back in the homeland.
How sad it is for it to be moonless tonight. A bit of moonlight would have been nice. To see you clearly, not shrouded by lack of electrical power, may make my decision to stay, harder. I indeed missed you.
But instead we have this storm to sit through. And darkness. Low light. Brave candles. Four hours and a half. Just like the old days.
“I domnişoară tu de asemenea. A face pe plac la a veni casă.” Your stance softening, your eyes sincere and pleading. This is the first statement you utter, not a question, a statement.
“Numai darling I sînt casă.”
“Şi I’m exterior un goddamn fereastră."
Four stories up, nearer to the dark and cloudy sky, nearer to the crying Mother Earth, the rain, it won’t wash away our sins, or the sins of the world. Nor your curse, my gift, through bloodlines.
“Energie casă. Fly away. I’m nu venire spate,” I strain to tell you this. I bite my lower lip and draw blood.
“Vladimir, I dragoste tu, numai you’re un bastard şi traitor.” This stings but I roll with the punches.
“Nadja, meu darling fiică, I know. Aceasta este tot de ce I’m nu venire spate cu tu.”
But you’re already gone, letting the wind carry you back to our dear Romania. And I am left here alone with my brave candle, my storm, my four story home.
Three more hours until morning. I’m hoping the storm would let the sun peek through its menace.
I would like to see it again after all these centuries.
.062208.
