Wednesday, December 1, 2010

Impossible Love Story from the distant past

This is a story how I fell in love across the class lines.
I am a terrible snob and a poor bourgeois girl,
Who makes up her stories and lives in a fairytale world.
I met him: a poor, young, handsome, working class man.
He never read a book for fun, never visited a museum besides on a field trip,
Never had sushi, never been to the theater, and didn’t know who Edith Piaf was.
But the dreamer I am,
I saw him in a romantic light.
The pink glasses I wore didn’t allow me to see all the cracks.
He was a cook, so I thought of him as an artist in cooking.
He enjoyed cleaning his house, so I thought he came from a decent family.
He used to dress well, so I thought of him as an expert in fashion.
He solved puzzles, so I thought he was encyclopedically smart.
We were together for a few days, maybe weeks, even months.
Every word he said, every decision he took, every friends we made,
I twisted it all up in my mind.
His words were no simple words, but had a deep metaphorical meaning.
All his actions came after a deep, emotional consideration.
Every friend we shared thought of us, as a respectable, lasting couple.
Until one day…
One sunny spring day.  One of these days, so clear that you can almost smell the oxygen burning your winter- exhausted brains, I woke up.
I opened my eyes so widely that in the first moment I was so startled I couldn’t open my mouth.
His handsomeness was gone somewhere and what was left was that bag of a bonny, narrow-chests body, expressionless face and eyes with a color of something rotting in the water.
He was talking to me but together with my speech I must have lost my ability to hear, so I tried reading his lips.
But what was he saying? Is it even possible to be so dull?
Then he left to his cooking job which was actually just making standard pizzas in a dingy Italian place.
He was dressed as if he was going out and his vanity looked so silly, puzzles tucked down his pocket. I took a deep gasp.
The door closed behind him and I looked around the house, he so liked to clean.
I couldn’t help noticing that whatever he did, there were always nasty stains on the bathroom mirror, as if he spat toothpaste right there and smeared it .
Before I packed up my bags and left, I wrote a note to say:
“I thought you were someone else and I am sorry for that. Good bye”                                      
He wrote back later that night.
“You will always regret, you snobby, bourgeois bitch. You will never find a man like me”
 and he was so totally right…

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