Thursday, June 05, 2008
It is a hot day, the specifics I don’t know, never having mastered the metric conversion. The heat makes everyone crazy dumb. It is only after the sun goes down that some will attempt to recreate the day’s madness with drinks and different positions.
Christina does not cover up as she hangs some towels to dry. Leaning forward, the geraniums bow their heads at the touch of her skin.
I steal a glance, imagining the taste of salt and flowers on my tongue.
Despite the heat there is a breeze in the courtyard, caused perhaps by the tiny space between each building, a closeness which makes the sidewalk gasp for air. The green of the trees rustle.
It is like a secret, the sound of a quickly running tap or the metro as it glides to a stop.
Out front, everything remains still. I whistle some Django so she will know that I have gone and she can cover up.
- Wayne H.W Wolfson 2008
They called me “Beethoven” because the thin walls could not hold back my music.
Although I think if it had been anything besides symphony they all would have complained, but to complain about symphony would almost seem an admission of ignorance. They may not get or even like it, but no one wanted to appear left behind by what they considered class and culture.
Originally they called me “Professor.” This made the old guy who rented the room across from mine with the grey, push broom moustache upset. I learned later he had been a teacher before forced retirement.
He never complained that I heard. Very quickly though, I was “Beethoven”.
The morning after the first heavy snowfall and he was gone. I decided to sleep in, the whispering of the cleaning women, I knew there would be nothing left to steal unless I ran in now. Ah, but the floor was cold and I needed a shave.
I did not worry, that room with its trick doorknob had a way of growing new lodgers.
I pull the covers up and roll over. Some of the staff enforced the no visitors rule. She would throw small pebbles at my window until I got up and helped her sneak in.
How long ago was that? When asked, who left who, which side was better to be on?
She told me where she would be, even made up a little song, borrowing a melody for it, so as to not forget.
Flat on my back, I stare straight up. The halls are quiet now. Her perfume haunted the cracked plaster sky above the bed.
I would like to stay in this wonderland, but lack of motion eventually makes me uneasy. Besides, she was out there somewhere, now within a song.
- Wayne H.W Wolfson 2008
One of Bluepepper's trusted regulars, Wayne has just returned from his yearly sabatical in Paris.
Posted by Justin Lowe at 7:40 am