“I have rainbow colored bruises in exotic places. wanna see them?”
the air is moist and hot though the sun set hours ago, and I cannot really think straight right now when on the table a chocolate egg bought from valzani might or might not be melting. maybe it is sucking into its sweet core the taste of my moral failure, which is ironic enough in the light of the damn egg being a gift for my future parents-in-law.
“depends on the level of exotic, kid.”
“well, yesterday I was driving in the forest with my mountain bike for I have realized that it's somehow more healthy to disguise my self-destructive tendencies into sport than to drink myself to oblivion. anyway, this small piece of metal that used to hold the wing of the front tire sunk into it when hitting a bump in high speed, making the front tire get stuck. I flew off the bike in the kinda way most people break their bones. It was awesome. I've broken my left hand three times in the past, and that has thoroughly enough taught me to be completely relaxed when shit goes down.”
“and the bruises?”
“there's few on my right inner thigh.”
“let's go to my place.”
we leave the crowded terrace by tiber to walk through the tiny streets of trastevere, filled with tourists pursuing a sense of the romantic bullshit melting off the centuries old buildings. the cobbled streets are difficult for her stilettos, so I go on holding her by the elbow. I let her walk in first through the iron gate into the hall of my apartment building, following her tail up the marble stairway to the third floor.
inside, she sits on my futon and looks a little lost, so I put on some old house and roll a joint. after lighting it I place the valzani egg safely into the fridge in its cardboard box, and grab a bottle of red.
“I like your apartment.”
“I don't think I want to see your bruises.”
“why not?”
“I have a girlfriend.”
“so? I thought you were into all epic life has to offer.”
“yeah I am but I have to think about her feelings. I am going to go over to meet her parents in sicily tomorrow. I cannot carry myself as I want to if I have looked at the bare crotch of whoever the night before.”
“bullshit. you are afraid.”
“you shouldn't be like that lorelei. you will end up screwing your heart out of its place until it becomes so twisted that you're left to share your own bitterness with people like me.”
“you are afraid.”
the smoke floats out of the room through a big open window with a seat made of marble. I distract myself into imagining where and how people have dug up such large quantities of fine rocks back a hundred years and more, while lorelei stares at me with the sort of a shine in her eyes that I wish there were no stars out tonight.
“I am not afraid. I just know what I want and what I don't want.”
“did you not just say that your wants tonight are based on the supposed feelings of others? why not try to be honest with yourself and express that honesty in doing what you really want to do.”
“what I want is in the future and no way I am going to wet my bed by taking any random whim seriously. ”
“there is no fucking future. I thought a rationalist like you would have figured that out already. ”
“you are fucked up.”
“no. I am aware of the arbitrary sense of life us twenty something simpletons have, and that very arbitrariness needs to be exhausted fully before turning too old to be as fucked up as we are. I know it is not a pleasure for anybody's eyes to see the bruised thighs of a forty year old woman. it is a different world then, if one gets that far.”
“ok show me the god damn bruises.”
lorelei gets up to pull down her tights and sits back down to spread her legs. as she laughs and goes on about a variety of random stuff unrelated to anything, I dress my weird sense of guilt up into an image of her. she is the embodiment of my moral failure, which I know she doesn't mind because that is the story of her life anyway.
