I've come to rely on her crying, I thought, feeling
mystified. Should I be feeling like a bad person?
We were sitting around a small coffee table, at her place.
The table was positioned by the kitchen wall and we were
sitting at a right angle from each other. Otherwise touching
hands would've been carried with a certain feeling of
formality, while meeting one another's eyes would become a
burden none of us wanted.
We are both silent, her eyes intently gazing at a floor
tile, her hands playing with a tea spoon.
My cognac gives off an immensely strong aroma, intensified
by the cold.
''What's wrong?'' I ask, casually but not indifferently. I
feel like asking.
She doesn't reply, of course. I know she'd heard me, and
simply doesn't feel like replying.
I know too, what her reply is going to be. After all, it's
the same as always, nothing out of the ordinary.
My own gaze is unconsciously settled on an oil painting
across the opposite wall, of a small rowing boat resting on
a river shore.
''Tell me, you'll feel better'' I say after gently touching
her shoulder.
She wasn't a girl anymore, she was a woman. Twenty five, two
years my junior.
Sighing, her figure huddles even further into herself, like
a porcupine or a turtle, I think momentarily. Her eyes are
fixed on the same spot, unmoving, unseeing, pupils quivering
slightly. I can see only the right side of her face, but
experience completes the rest.
For example, I know that in the next couple of minutes she
will start pulling on her nose, with a tear appearing at
each eye, without really falling. She wouldn't blink,
perhaps dreading the moment her eyelid would crush the yet
unshed drop.
I can't tell whether I'm drunk already, or simply tired. The
smell of the drink and the late hour intertwine with each
other to the point of inseparability.
The tear falls, with an all but an audible splash on a
tile.
I can't tell whether it is impressionism or the other style,
but the painting is implemented with what seems like short
brush pokes, colors overlaying each other and yet the look
is realistic. The reeds are brown, the water blue. Sort of.
Her hand feels warm and small, but since I'd been holding it
for such a long time now, the touch feels dull.
It all feels everyday: her crying, the boat, the cognac.

When my friend would sit drinking with me at the local pub,
he would always order two beers for himself as his initial
order.
He said that he enjoyed the sense of urgency while drinking
the first one, due to the second beer getting warm. I
ordered only one and drank it in time with him. His beer
capacity was scary, and I could never drink half as much.
''The say 'Your life - your call''' he said, twirling the
remains of the beverage at the bottom of his glass with
circular motions.
''They say that so you know you're a failure anyway you look
at yourself, you know that?'' he went on, seriously,
excitement showing in the glint of his ever so slightly
glazed eyes.
''Yeah?'' I replied, not sharing his passion. He would often
get like that about some topic, trying as hard as he might
to prove a point that would inevitably elude him as alcohol
progressed into his system.
''So what about it?'' I continued, feeling obligated to
contribute to the conversation.
Pointing an expressive finger and fixing me with a wicked
smile, a portrait of 'Uh-ha!', he replied: ''And what about
'If you don't succeed at first, try, fucking try again'?''
Licking his lips, ''Doesn't that perpetuate competitive
behavior?''
''Maybe, but I don't get what's so indefinitely wrong with
it, dude,'' I say.
''Sounds like a good plan, if you want something eventually
done.''
Shaking his head, the finger raised almost to my nose he
says: ''But what's after a second, third or a whatever
fiasco? You still gonna believe it?''
''In every one of us hides a superman, my ass!'' he finishes
with a flourish of downing the remains of his beer.
Toying with my own mug, I concentrate on the music for a
moment. It's some rock band I'm not familiar with, maybe
Queen, maybe Pink Floyd. I'm not much of a music fan. The
best thing about music is that it's an escape route from any
uncomfortable conversation in public; just nod your head to
the rhythm.
''I'm not sure I follow,'' I say after a while. ''What are
you trying to prove? That we're not omnipotent? Wow.''
Playing games, philosophy in the night, the bass
reverberating in my guts and the mug nearly empty.
''Way of, dude,'' he replies smirking, ''way of.''
''I'm saying society tries to mold us into the mighty
specimen that we just aren't. We are disgusting, weak
losers. If I'd ever meet superman, I'd deport his sorry
alien ass back to where Krupton don't shine, 'cause he makes
us all look bad.''
''It's Krypton,'' I say, smiling.
''My point exactly,'' he agrees.
It must've taken him forever to come up with that line, I
think to myself.

''Is there anything I can do for you?'' I ask her.
I wonder if it's another time, because it feels like
déjà vu. Maybe her clothes are different, but
after being together for so long I can't tell anymore.
Otherwise it's exactly the same, or it's just that I keep
focusing on the familiar objects.
The oars are inside their sockets, slightly asymmetrically
folded, stuck in the muddy beach. Yet again she's practicing
this self control, trying to look strong and independent.
The facts are that she's like that only when the two of us
are alone. Happy couple. In front of me, she's trying to act
it out like some kind of a heroine, managing the weight of
the world on her shoulders.
''I want to help, you know. I'm here if you need me.''
So much pain and she must carry it by herself.
I'm so useless, and uselessly sarcastic. It's not her fault
she has these fits, I remind myself again.
An invisible, silent, tiny splash.
Her hands cup her face, and she starts shaking, rocking
lightly, and for a moment I can't tell whether she's crying
or laughing.
I hug her, whispering that it's gonna be alright, it's gonna
be just fine. I don't know, but it feels as if her shaking
increases, maybe she's trying to tell me that I'm wrong.
I just sit there, on that tiny kitchen stool without a back
rest, focusing on the floor tiles. I think I can see where
her first tear fell.
She smells like coffee and salt and warm.
It's gonna be alright, I whisper, kissing her neck just
below her right ear. But we both know that it's probably
going to be the same. The cognac is a bit too dry, I think.

''So this other hunter says - Oh yeah? Good luck hunting
bears with a whip!'' and I laugh and laugh, looking at him
bask in his originality and humor.
''Nice one,'' I congratulate him. He's already into his
third beer, while I'm still struggling with the first.
It's stuffy and hot in the bar, and the cigarette smoke is
very thick.
''So what do you think about my idea about death,'' he asks.
Trying to swallow my exasperation, I shrug. Innocence, if
not ignorance.
''Man, you're one uncooperative loser,'' he says, shaking
his head. Disappointment, figures.
''I'm saying that it's unfair how you've got so many cool
ways to die but still only this one lousy way of getting
into this fucked up multiverse.''
''I mean fair's fair, right?''
I hum an agreement. It sure is a funny, though a totally
absurd thought. Am I boring him, I wonder.
''So what if you'd be able to somehow tip the scales,
balance things up,'' he goes on, probably unaware whether
I'm listening or not. ''Imagine that for every imaginable
death there's a wholly different birth, or more likely a
creational modus operandi.''
The music is jazz, I'm pretty sure. Or maybe blues. How can
you tell, I wonder.
''That's bullshit, dude,'' I reply. ''Creative, but
otherwise degenerate talk. Are you even listening to what's
coming out of your mouth?''
I immediately regret being so straightforward, but my
thinking is preoccupied with the music. A goal: find out
what's jazz and what's blues, and maybe some other stuff.
I feel like I'm dreaming, or maybe waking up. Whether it's a
new day or an old memory, it all merges with the jazz-blues
and the beer.
Not knowing how I'm gonna die, I wish, just for a moment,
that my birth would yet again become a mystery of a similar
sophistication.

I don't know whether I'm drunk, or whether I'm just dizzy.
Lying in bed, the ceiling seems to gently spiral. Her breath
is warm on my neck, and her hand caresses the hairs on my
chest.
The pillows are soft and smell clean. The temperature is
just perfect.
Actually, I dislike this feeling, but I don't have the heart
to tell her. It's not only about me, I remind myself.
I look at her, and she looks back. In the darkness I barely
see the sparkle of her eyes. I look at her, but instead of
just her, I see her looking at me. And at that moment I can
tell the difference, and suddenly it all makes sense and I
want to say I love, but I'm afraid to break such
perfection.
I'm in between us, like the Holy Ghost. And suddenly I
believe in something great, and it feels like crossing a
very long and narrow bridge over a windy chasm.
I am afraid, paralyzed.
And then it's gone, and all I see is her, yet again. I sigh,
and I'm not sure what I mean by that.
''I know,'' she says quietly, ''that I'm not easy. But
that's me.''
I tell her that I understand. I tell her that it's very hard
to see her so depressed without being able to help her at
all.
''I'd understand if you'd start hating me because of that,''
she goes on. Nothing original, a discussion that's been
going on forever. ''But I don't expect anything from you
when I'm like that; it's not about you or maybe even me.''
Sometimes I wake up and it's still yesterday. Calendar, the
Devil.
''I don't want to give up on you,'' I tell her, ''because I
love you and I don't want to see you hurt so much.''
Maybe she smiles, but the ceiling rotates and I wonder
whether I'm going to be sick.
''I love you too,'' she says, her hands annoying my
sensitive hair.
Did she cry today, I wonder. Probably, I reassure myself,
though I'm not entirely convinced.
I can't ask her that, of course, and I fall asleep. When I
wake up, it will be a new same day.

''OK, so get this,'' he continues a moment after calling for
a consecutive refill. Maybe we should find a new place, I
listlessly contemplate.
''Let's suppose that there comes out a book, or a movie or a
professional argument that proves God exists,'' he says.
''Wouldn't that be amazing?''
Again, he's somewhere between excitement and intoxication,
babbling his way around intangibles.
I'm kind of tired, and for a moment I don't want to drink
anymore.
''I dunno, I mean, yeah,'' I say. ''Amazing, dude.''
Do I even like beer, I wonder. The music is so loud we have
to lean over each other's shoulder to keep the conversation
going.
''But what's more amazing,'' he says, smiling his sly smile,
''is the day after everybody would agree that God's
existence has been proven.''
He nods dramatically, eyes sparkling with excitement.
''I mean, it would change everything, right? And what's
more,'' he continues, all but shouting in my ear, ''what's
more is that the existence of that proof doesn't necessarily
require the existence of the almighty!''
I'm trying, desperately, to take another swing of the drink.
Maybe I'm just not in the mood today.
''How's that?'' I ask after a pause. ''Then how the hell
could the proof be right?''
''Logic,'' he shrugs, ''can prove or disprove anything. It's
just a matter of acceptance into the scientific community.
But just imagine, just imagine how this world would look on
the tomorrow!''
''OK, dude, I get you,'' I reply.
''You see,'' he continues gulping a mouthful, ''that's just
how sick we all are.''
''The morning after God's been found to exist,'' he smirks,
''is the morning I disconnect Television.''

And I keep wondering, whether I'm in the right place at the
right time. Focusing, I have to close my eyes as hard as I
can, purple and orange spots seemingly appearing in front of
me. Brain Picasso. I'm trying to get there again, but
somehow, that moment eludes me. I went to sleep and when I
woke it was a totally different day, suddenly. It's all been
altered. The boat is on a sandy sea shore. The skies are
pink and purple with change. There's a glass of scotch in
front of me, and I can't really tell whether I'd been
drinking. The music is Opera.
Shaking my head and opening my eyes I just have to wonder
what kind of a day it's going to be. Either way, I figure,
just nod your head to the rhythm.