There've been only a few times in my life that I felt
something important was happening around me, so that somehow
I was involved. This is due to my inexplicable quality of
feeling indifference towards everything in general, and me
in particular. And yet, these other times I felt like an
almost normal person, dealing with situations that would
probably have impact only upon me, with a real zeal and a
sense of urgency. It is one of these experiences that I wish
to share with you, so that maybe it will give me some peace
of mind, or otherwise would win some compassion out of a
stranger's heart.

I was discussing something dull with Anna on the phone,
while in the same time wallowing in this incredible urge to
forget about her and go to the beach, right now, in the
middle of October.
What actually saved our bizarre relationship, were two
items, both selfish in their own ways. One was hers, and the
other entirely my own.
The one was our sex life. I didn't care hell about sex. For
me it was a kind of a burden to be carried in order to
pursue my own interests, which were few enough, and did not
actually require this monstrous payment, if you asked me.
But to this girl it meant the world. She would keep saying
how good a partner I was, and irritated me with compliments
about our genuine and creative coitus. Sometimes, as we lay
naked and spent in somebody's bed, she would say that she
felt something was wrong with me. She would try to pry it
out with all sorts of verbal devices. She would always start
the torture session with an appetizer of asking me with her
girlish voice whether I still loved her, and after
inevitably getting the information, she would move the
thumbscrew to the position of our sex life. How come I was
so unsatisfied with her, she would ask me, and she would
twist and pry the element of her involvement in this unholy
ordeal until it bled.
I never lied to her. I said I felt towards her the same way
I felt when we'd just met. Nothing could've been more
politically correct, as I could not make my mind about it,
and never intended to. It was simply a low priority, because
my feelings concerning Anna had no influence on my reason of
being with her, which I shall point out shortly. I can only
say that mostly she made my mind feel itchy, and that I
could abide her, physically. I could never remember when
exactly we've met, but it felt long enough so that when we'd
have sex, the part where we took our clothes off and went to
the next stage seemed pre-programmed.
Sometimes I pondered that maybe she really did understand
me, and all of her behavior in my presence was a game she
played in order to confuse me, and then, one day,
theatrically announce that she knew exactly what was going
on from the beginning, and that I owed her an apology.
Whenever I felt unsure in these speculations, she would
always come to my rescue with asking me whether the beige
skirt went with the sandals, and I would happily mumble an
answer to her inquiry, having discarded my theories.
To the other question I replied as clumsily as I could,
maneuvering with all my might in order to get away. As I
have already stated, sex was insignificant to me, and
explaining why my lust seemed diminished was like describing
how come I forgot the skill of flying.
So I would circle around this issue, never quite landing in
the field itself (the result would've been a catastrophe)
but dipping her imagination in different suggestions, never
lying to her, but never affirming my mental resignation from
the pleasures of the flesh.
These conversations in bed would exhaust me more than even
the mightiest sex act, but it would keep Anna sated in the
end. Sometimes I would imagine her in a most horrible way: a
hungry monster that would not let me be until I filled it in
all the ways I could devise; until I had no vigor left in my
entire system. It seemed as if all effort I could exert in
her general direction was cheerfully devoured by this beast,
and there was no stopping it from claiming every part of me
should I lose my guard for an instant. After this, we would
fall asleep. She would cuddle me, and I would not resist
her, usually, because I either didn't care due to my fatigue
or that I found myself enjoying it, in the way of a newborn.
Thus, my sacrifices would end, in my most sincere hopes of
justifying themselves in the long run, and I would trail off
this mortal coil, being chased or preceded by Anna.

Anna, after humming a part of song I didn't care to
recognize, asked me:
"Do you want to watch a movie tonight? I heard there's a new
one with Tom Cruise, and it's supposed to be something
neat."
Usually I'm a great one for movies. In the theater, all
people succeed in getting away from their own life for some
ninety minutes plus commercials, and drown inside a stupid
plot in which they partake until the very end. Movie
theaters are one of many proofs that I found to the thesis
that most lives suck.
"I'm not in the mood today, hon," I replied, implying that I
didn't have other plans but a movie was out of the question.
I really wasn't in the mood, and the devil knows why. I
actually pondered at this fact while our conversation
continued, not coming to any conclusions, but nevertheless
utterly enjoying my incompetence in self analysis.
"So... do you want to do anything together at all?" resumed
Anna, continuing her assault on my otherwise free evening.
Before that, she proposed a bunch of other activities that I
didn't find to my liking at the time.
"Of course I do, but..." I began. I don't know why I said
it. There was this big thing I was thinking about for all my
centuries together with her, but I couldn't just do tonight.
Or could I?
"But what, Pitter?" Anna asked a bit annoyed, but I could
feel a thin smell of anticipation in her tone.
"Well, it's something I've been thinking about for a long
time, but never had the nerve to ask you," I replied, having
made up my mind: definitely a historic moment, of gargantuan
proportions. It made me happy acting so spontaneously, and I
decided to go on with it.
"So just ask it, you dummy. I promise I won't tell my
parents."
She was definitely becoming excited, god knows why. Well,
maybe because it was actually the first time I was really
going to ask her for something. It must've made her feel
important, this whole idea of me requiring her in some way,
a notion beforehand unheard of in our relationship.
"All right I will, but it will require most of your time
this evening," I continued.
"Deal," she replied.
"So I will pick you up at seven from your place."
"And what are we going to do?" she inquired.
"You'll find out at seven," I told her calmly. I wanted to
keep my cards closed, being able to change everything at the
last moment without her expecting the least.
"Is it a surprise? I'm so excited!" she said appearing as
she said she was. She then added the fated "What should I
wear, baby?" with an earnest concern, as the outcome of an
inappropriate choice would most definitely lead to
disaster.
"Hmm, something comfortable and warm," I replied, and after
a short pause quickly added: "Not fancy. And bring an
umbrella."
I could feel her intellect digesting this information,
scrutinizing and dissecting it in every way known to the
female mind of early twenties. It's truly amazing how much a
representative of that gender can learn from these data
pieces. I think the umbrella part really overloaded her
system, but finally she came through with a positive reply,
that processing was complete:
"Fine. Give me a call when you're nearing my place."
"Of course. See you at seven," I replied, and terminated the
conversation.

It was only four in the afternoon when we stopped talking,
so we both had plenty of time. It always strikes me that no
matter how much time you'd give Anna to prepare herself for
an evening together, she would always be late and apologetic
about it. Of course I happened to participate not once in
her exhibition of ritual preparation, and I could draw
several conclusions from those encounters. The main one
being that she actually needed about an hour to get ready.
She had to comb her hair, which would take some ten minutes.
She needed to choose clothes from a royal inventory, always
trying on at least three shirts, skirts, shoes and whatnot,
always posing in front of the mirror and myself. She would
ask me what the best combination was, keeping her face as
emotionless as possible, so as not to influence my judgment.
After my reply, she would usually repeat the question, so as
to make it seem critical. Of course it's meaningless to say
that I didn't care what she actually wore, and it was a
bothersome ceremony in every way. I simply was totally
indifferent to her outer appearance, with a little exception
in the socks area. I just loved it when she wore long
striped and colorful socks, which like gloves had a separate
and a specially designed room for each toe. Somehow they
made me feel snug.
The whole clothes choosing would usually take some thirty
minutes.
Afterwards came the make-up, which would last some ten
minutes altogether. That left Anna another ten minutes to
pack her lady bag with all that lady nonsense. I never saw
need in anything she actually put there, but I just lacked
the courage to point it out to her.
So it happens, I never quite understood how come that woman
was always late by at least ten minutes. When I would get to
her apartment she would actually be in the middle of
preparations, clothes scattered across the room, like
corpses at a battlefield. I truly felt sympathy towards the
clothes she hadn't chosen, as I would feel for a soldier
dying because of an arrogant commander's whim.

In complete contrast, I never needed more than fifteen
minutes time to get myself as ready as I could. This evening
was no different, so after getting myself ready, I drove to
her place. I phoned from my mobile when I was halfway there,
so as to hurry her up. When I arrived she was still waging a
war inside her head against different sets of clothing,
while trying desperately to negotiate some kind of a truce,
a compromise. I waited patiently for her to gather the
spoils, and together we went downstairs to my car.
"You look very well tonight," I complimented her, without
actually looking in her direction. If she would force me to
close my eyes, I couldn't recall what she actually was
wearing.
"You really think so Pitter?" she asked me, seemingly
annoyed. The battle was a fierce one, I could tell.
I glanced at her, catching something I could refer to in her
garment.
"Yeah, the belt really does it," I said, a sentence which
wasn't necessarily a lie.
"Thanks," she replied, totally dishearten.
Oh well, you can't always read a woman's mind. Or perhaps
you can never actually read it. If women's minds were in a
written language, the writing could never be understood, I
pondered. And if by some happenstance it was understood,
then it must fall to that that it was misinterpreted.
Otherwise, if it was understood and deciphered correctly,
then unquestionably the world was coming to its flaming
end.
We got into the car, and I drove us away.

Traffic was light enough so as not to pose a real threat to
my plans, which were intertwining within themselves in my
head. I was a bit anxious about this entire thing, but as I
already told you before it was the sole reason why I
suffered this girl, and so I tried to suppress my unease. I
turned the radio on. The music didn't mean anything to me,
especially music they put on the radio which was supposed to
address the general public. I guess I just wasn't a worthy
ambassador of the general public. The one genre I actually
was not entirely unresponsive to was jazz. I just couldn't
stand jazz. When I happened to listen to jazz I could
clearly imagine my head being slowly compressed within
itself ad infinitum, until the music stopped. It would take
me several minutes to unwind from the agony. There was no
jazz on the radio this time and I felt my anxiety flutter
away at least in that area of worry.
Anna was excited and nervous, I could tell from an
involuntary glimpse. She would keep her eyes fixed on the
road signs, trying to deduce where I was taking her. Much
depended on her, but she didn't know it yet. I had to
comment her mentally on the way she kept silent throughout
the complete ride.
Only once, when we were about midway there, I felt the need
to start a conversation.
"Did you happen to read 'The Outsider', by Camus?" I asked
her nonchalantly.
"Sure," she replied quickly. "Great book," she then added as
a literary observation she must've felt was in place.
Our scholarly discussion ended at that last remark, and we
continued silently on our journey.

We arrived there after about an hour's drive. 'There' was
actually a small cottage, in the suburbs. The area was a
quiet one; the cottage was secluded and seemed a little
ominous in the semi-darkness. There was no light inside the
house, and even the street light that stood nearby wasn't
on.
I hesitated. I almost made a step towards it, but then
neglected the notion due to inexplicable sluggishness.
By and by, I was getting a bit nauseous.
Anna looked at me with overflowing thrill, and unable to
stop her voice from giving away all her emotions, she
asked:
"So here we are, aren't we?"
"I guess," I told her, maintaining calm within my voice. As
a matter of fact, I was nervous as hell, and all the
thoughts and improbabilities flooded my otherwise clear
mind.
"So what's the big deal, Pitter?" she pried me.
"Well..." I began, but was unable to continue. This all was
so wrong. Or maybe it was just too right.
"You keep staring at that old house," she stated with an air
of victory about her. She solved the mystery that occupied
her during that entire ride. The solution must've
intoxicated her with exaltation.
But as she had spoken, I could feel her voice becoming less
and less audible. My head was swimming, and I was gasping
for air in that sea of doubts and memories. She said
something else, but I could no longer hear her. My vision
became blurred, whether with tears, or maybe I was engaging
in some process of complete mental shutdown. I really
couldn't tell then. I felt so bad right there, right then,
on that October evening. It was cold, I knew with some sort
of inner knowledge, but I couldn't actually feel it. It
might've started to rain. I wouldn't have noticed it anyway.
Anna said something again, and by some miraculous accident
her hand found mine, and clutched it in a firm grip. Even
through my pseudo-consciousness I could feel her hand: a
reality within imagination, an island in the sea. I exhaled
the air that was thoughtlessly being held within my lungs. I
returned her clasp with my own, although my muscles seemed
to be acting by themselves, not even noticing the commands
of my brain.
As quickly as the sensation had come, that quickly it passed
over me and away.

"Well?" Anna asked me with irritation that overpowered the
anticipation in her voice.
"Sorry, what did you say?" I asked her in return, regaining
some of my composure.
"I was saying," she replied unpleasantly, "that I'm scared
you are going to kill me in that house."
"What?" she was kidding of course, but I just wasn't lucid
enough to see it through immediately. I was at a loss, but
it mattered so little now.
"Just kidding," she said, extremely pleased with herself on
her inventiveness, and then added: "I was saying that maybe
we should do something instead of simply standing in the
cold."
I thought this over in a blink of an eye.
"We are going to, hon," I said. "I think that somehow I had
lost my way."
"Oh." She sounded perplexed, as her resolution about the
cottage faded.
"Let's get into the car," I said calmly.
So we got back into my car, and I drove us someplace
irrelevant.

For the next several days, I avoided seeing Anna. We didn't
talk either. Through the routine of everyday rubbish, my
mind was entirely preoccupied with this one question:
I hadn't actually lost my way, had I?