I called you the Lady of
the questionmarks. You flooded me with questions. It even started with
one. We were on a train. You sat across from me and you said: 'I am
sorry, but may I ask what you are writing?'
Nothing of any literary worth.
'Ehm, my diary', I said.
'You write a diary?'
Yes, but if you would read two sentences of what's in there, you would run to an other compartment at the speed of lightening.
Of
course, I didn't show you my diary and so we managed to have a drink at
the train station. More questions came. Normally that's my part of the
game, but you didn't even give me a chance to ask you one. It was a
welcome change, I must admit. A girl who showed initiative.
You asked my telephone number. You asked me in which part of the city I lived. You asked me if I wanted to go and see a movie.
And then finally, my first question to you: 'When?'
'How about tonight?'
When you woke up in my bed the next morning you asked:
'Why do you have so many pictures of dead people on your walls?'
'They inspire me.'
'To do what?'
Your best question so far.
I went to get you some breakfast. When I got back you had already cleaned my place.
'Do you mind if I tidy the place up a bit?'
You
didn't ask if you could move in, but you did. You would only ask if you
could put your this or that here or there. My closet started filling up
with your clothes very rapidly. That was fine, I'm used to using the
floor to store my clothes.
Sometimes you didn't ask
questions. Like when you were cooking. You liked cooking. You also liked
to braid my hair. You liked to wash, shampoo, brush and braid it. I
don't think you were trying to tell me something about personal hygiene.
I'm sure you would have asked me something about it otherwise.
When we went out to restaurants, I would pay. You were still studying. You could pick whatever you liked, but you asked:
'Why do you always order the cheapest on the menu and nothing to drink?'
'I am an artist. I don't believe in artists who eat well.'
'Why not?'
'Writers are like mushrooms. Keep them in the dark and feed them on shit.'
'No really, why do you never treat yourself to anything good? You always buy the best for me.'
'If
you choose to be an artist and never produce anything of any practical
use, you are like a parasite. So when I deny myself some of the luxuries
of life, I feel less like a parasite.'
'You don't like being an artist?'
'I love being an artist.'
'I
think if you had a different profession, you would invent some other
reason to deny yourself the luxuries of life. Maybe you are just not
satisfied with yourself?'
I could stand the questions, but the analysis that came with them was something else.
The
first time we had dinner with your parents I saw where you got your
questioning habit from. Your dad was a cop. He would ask your mother:
'How long was this chicken in the oven? How many degrees? Did you put
enough salt and pepper on it? How much does it weigh?'
Where
were you at the time the potatoes burned? What were you doing in the
bathroom? Was someone there with you at the time who can confirm this?
Any
question he had about me, he directed to you. I didnt have a name. I
was this guy. 'Is this guy treating you well? Is this guy good for
money? At what time does this guy get up? Is this guy handy with a
hammer? What kind of car does this guy drive?'
The answers rolled right out of your mouth. Like you had prepared for an exam.
The only question he ever asked me, was: 'What's your poison?'
Meaning my favorite drink. Apparently you weren't supposed to know anything about liquor.
I
knew it wasn't the right thing to answer to the man's question he had a
reddish, strawberry like nose-, but I said I didn't really like the
taste of alcohol.
When we were walking back to my place afterwards, you were bouncing up and down and telling me what a good impression I made.
I couldn't understand all this enthusiasm and asked:
'Why do you like me so much?'
You said: 'You are like a cute little bird with a broken wing. I just love taking care of you.'
Wrong answer.
I asked:
'What if you like taking care of the bird so much, you don't want the wing to ever heal?'
'What do you mean?'
I
don't know why I didn't keep my mouth shut. I mean, you were
good-looking, very girly, very soft skin, nice hips, fashionable, but
unpretentious clothes, subtle perfume and you had a sensual walk. I
could get used to your cleanliness. You spoiled me with your cooking,
but I liked the time it saved me. And your giving nature was most giving
in the bedroom. I was grateful, but tense. I prefer girls who exploit
me for their personalized hedonistic purposes. I guess it gives me a
sense of usefulness. But still, we had a good horizontal connection.
It didn't make much sense.
All those qualities landed you straight on the list of luxury items I like to deny myself.
'Why do you wanna break up with me?'
'I can't stand being pampered.'
'Why not?'
'Did
you ever read the novel Oblomov? You're going to rock me to sleep with
all this good care of yours. I'm afraid I'm going to be like a sedated
baby eternally suckling at his mother's breast.'
'But I like taking care of you! And it's good for you too. You're finally getting some colour.'
'Look, I don't wanna be your rosy cheeked baby, ok?'
'Is this your way of saying I clean too much? I have it from my mother. I can stop if that's what you want. What do you want?'
I walked out on you then and there,
but thanks for letting me discover, I was never looking for any easy ways out of adult life, but for hard ways in.
It took an altruist to make me see I'm a masochist.
