We had both started work on a PhD. Different faculty, same building.

We met at the coffee machine. We called him Eddy.

Giving names to things you both use, creates a first layer of intimacy.

You always had some trouble putting together a regular outfit. That day you were wearing a flowery dress with faded blue yeans underneath. You always looked bored, because everything was just too easy for you. I liked the way you dragged your feet passed my cubicle. You looked so convincingly sleepy, it made me smile.

In a very quiet sort of way you radiated more self-confidence than any girl I had ever met. When we would go for lunch in the garden of a nearby restaurant, you would blurt out things like: 'By that time I will already be head of the department'.

Your cocksure attitude gave me a feeling of peace.

'If you behave I will hire you to serve me coffee. And maybe if you really behave, you can serve me something else too'.

In your attitude towards me, you displayed an uncommon degree of verbal cruelty.

I would say:

'We can have a candle light dinner on the roof of the faculty building'. 

And you would say:

'Great, I can throw you off after. Or right before. More food for me'.

'Be sure to make it look like an accident'.

'Oh, don t worry, everybody knows how clumsy you are'.

When we did have the candle light dinner I asked:

'So when do you plan to throw me off?'

'Oh, I have decided it's too soon. I want to torture you some more first'.

We only met when you felt like meeting. Which wasn't often. You took your PhD very seriously –easy work or not – and you had three girlfriends who were entitled to spend at least one night a week with you.

Whenever you texted me to ask if we could meet, everything had to give.

I started rushing as soon as I had put my mobile back in my pocket. A whole battle plan would develop in front of my eyes:

-get home, hit the shower

-change clothes

-perfume

-50 push-ups to pump up the muscles a bit

-buy a bottle of vodka and multivitamin juice to make your favorite cocktail

-buy one freshly baked brownie at the chocolate bar

I never arrived at your door without a sweaty brow.

Friends started to wonder why I had let a girl enslave-kiss me to life, would have been more exact- me virtually overnight. They looked at me like I was volunteering to shovel coal to keep hell's furnaces blazing. I couldn't answer their questions. I was puzzled myself. It had something to do with with the adamant, stern, inflexible look on your face. Like it was sculpted. It was hard to please you. I could almost never do anything right.

I would be two minutes late and I would apologize and say:

'I am sorry, but I had to walk my friend's dog. He is in the hospital, so he can't do it himself.'

'Well, it's interesting to see where your priorities lie.'

I'd bring a bottle of wine from a shop on the outskirts of town where they were supposed to have the best wine North of the Seine and you'd say:

'White wine? To go with spaghetti? Interesting.'

When you did say something nice, it washed my brain with endorphines, because I knew it must have been a very sincere compliment.

What was I looking for? A strict, disciplinary mother or just a hard to please girlfriend? Me falling asleep on your chest and not the other way around, made it all the more worrisome.

I felt like a puppet on your string, but the puppet felt he belonged there. Any other girl would have cut the string and chucked the puppet out of the window. Who can stand someone who passionately pursues the fulfilment of your needs? Who seems to thrive on satisfying you?

You could.

'I never needed anyone to feel complete, but still you complete me. You complete what was complete already. I think the most important thing is that with you I can combine the freedom of being single and have the security of having someone who embraces my uniqueness, without trying to mold me onto something I'm not and you are there when I want you to be there.'

One year into our relationship, friends had to recognize I was a stray bullet who had finally found a direction. You were the only girlfriend they all respected and didn't look at with pity, but with enthusiast glee.

I renamed you Zenobia. After the famous strategist who bested the Roman legions more than just a few times.

The same quiet confidence, dignified realism and unpretentious beauty emmanate from her portraits.

And it starts out with a Z, because my story ends with a Z

It's where our story begins.

16-06-2011 om 10:55 geschreven door Tederdraads  

Half Japanese. It said so on your T-shirt.

I don't know why a similar taste in music should pave the way for sexual intercourse, but it often does.

You liked Half Japanese, but you said it wasn't one of your favorite bands. The reason you wore the T-shirt was because you actually were half Japanese. Your father was Japanese, your mother was Belgian. At least she was at the time, now we would call her Flemish.

We met on the second afternoon of Pukkelpop. I only go to music festivals when a girlfriend drags me along or to get over one. That time the latter was the case. We were in luck.

Normally I only like the atmosphere in the camping area. When I'm in front of the stages I always catch myself watching the band on the tv screens. Why go to a music festival if you are going to just stand there in a meadow and watch tv? I can do that much more easily at home, without feeling like a cow staring at passing trains. But I like the camping grounds and the smell of pot that gently floats among the tents, like a marihuana sea breeze. I like the bits of conversation that come to my ear and it makes me feel young and free and neo-hippie-like to see people wash their hair out in the open. And I like having sex in a tent with music in the distance and bass beats shaking the earth under your twirling bodies.

You were there, because you worked there. You helped build the stages and you were supposed to take them down after. In the mean time you were free to catch some of the concerts. The only reason you became a roadie. That and the sense of  freedom the irregular working hours gave you. You had 'the 9 to 5 world ain't no place for me' tatoed on your wrist. In some kind of very aggressive pink. I guess roadie is one of the few career options open to someone who has that kind of a tatoe displayed in full view.

I was in the middle of getting over a break-up. So when when I was walking back to my tent, after our first conversation, I was telling myself: this time it's going to be different. This time I am not going to make the same mistakes again. Not that you had just agreed to a life long relationship or even a short festival fling, but one can dream, right?

We agreed to meet in front of a stall that sold something that was called Chinese food, but wasn't. You knew Asian food, so I didn't argue. 'You were in China?', I asked. 'Yes, is that strange?'

'Isn't that a bit like a German going to Russia?'

'How do you mean that?'

Yes, how DID I mean that? I wasn't making much sense. The sun, the vibes of the masses, quite a bit of beer (I drink at the end of relationships and at the start of new ones, and here the two situations blended, so yes, quite a bit of it) and the old butterfly feeling was making me blurt out crap.

'Nevermind, I was just wondering how Chinese people look at Japanese people. Knowing what a rowdy time the Japanese had in China right before and during world war two.”

'Right', you said, 'you are one of those guys who read history books.'

You looked at me like you'd just said: 'Right, you are one of those guys who wake up every morning in their own vomit and like to brag about it.'

'Nevermind', I said again.

'Yes, Nevermind', you said with one eyebrow raised, 'great album, though In Utero and Bleach are my favorite.'

'You look like the bass player of Shonen Knife', I said.

'Which one?', you asked.

Right, had to admit

a) I didn't know they went through more than one bass player.

b) I didn't know any of their names.

'It doesn't matter', you said, 'they're all good-looking. So thanks.'

I like girls who can take a compliment. Girls who don't fend off compliments, usually have no trouble stating what they want in bed.

'Do you want to grab a bite?', I said. Being so near to all those food stalls, it was the most logical thing to ask.

'No, I am not hungry.'

'Are you one of those girls who never eat?'

I can't stand girls who don't eat. They don't have calories to burn in bed. Or tent.

'No, I eat. I'm sure I'll git a bit peckish when the sun goes down. It's just too hot to eat anything now.'

'Are you sure? Because you are really slim.'

'Seriously, you should feel my thies.'

You pulled me and my left hand down and put it on your right thie. 

'Feel that?'

'It's firm.'

'Maybe. Broad is more the word for it.'

'Seriously, you got a great waist and you got killer legs.'

You were wearing black shorts. So short, the rim barely peeked from under the rim of your T-shirt.

'Ok, ok, enough with the compliments.'

'Sorry, but it's true.'

Grinning and silence.

'Ok, give me an other one.'

'You got a very feline look.'

'Is that a good thing?'

'That's a very good thing.'

'Ok then. Give me an other one.'

How many compliments does it take till you get to the centre of the...?

I didn't keep count, but we put up a seperate tent that night. All the way in the back. You moved out of the one you were sharing with your friends, I moved out of the tent I was sharing with mine. It sort of felt like moving to the far corner of the island to engage in mystical  initiating rites, which was a good feeling to have. At least we could make a little bit more noise there. And we were closer to the toilets. It wasn't like we needed to be close to the concert area any more.

'You smell like basmati rice, but better.' 

'You talk too much.'

Silence.

'But come on, go on. How do I taste? And please don't say something like hot Sushi.'

You tasted like the most expensive cocktail on the menu, and you don't want to lose the taste, 'cause you can't afford an other one.

You sat on my face.

'Now you have your cocktail on tap.'

When you rolled away, you asked: 'Doesn't it make your tongue hurt?'

'We are those who ache with amorous love.'

'What?'

'It's the title of an album by Half Japanese, isn't it?'

'Yes, I know. Stop trying to impress me. You already have me naked.'

I was really starting to like you.

The tent at the border of the island, seceded from the rest and formed it's own little kingdom. We only crossed back to the main island when we ran out of food. Which we didn't buy at the stalls. We walked all the way to a supermarket.

'I am what you would call a skinflint. I like that word to describe my obsession with saving money.'

'I suppose a roadie doesn't get that much pay.'

'Ow, it's ok. Saving money is more like a hobby. Or a challenge I can't resist. Has something to do with a residue of old Samurai perfectionism.'

Being cheap never sounded so sexy.

I had promised myself not to make the same mistakes again. But it all felt so right, so I copied that habit of yours. And every time I pick up a new habit, I overdo it just a tiny bit. The first month of our relationship, I managed to save over 70 percent of my salary. It's amazing how much you can save if you really want to.

After Pukkelpop we filled the gaps in your tour schedules with fucking. The fucking was long, the gaps were short. Every time you left, felt like the waiter snatched a big dessert I had barely touched right from under my nose.

We texted the skin of our fingers off. Saving money didn't seem to count for our phone bills. Sometimes we even spoke on the phone. Every other day at 11 am. You were very given to routines for a girl who vowed to hate the nine to five world.

There a lot of pauses when we were on the phone. Half of the time there was silence, the other half of the time we were looking for a topic to talk about. We had agreed not to fill telephone conversation by repeating over and over how much we missed each other. I hated missing you, your physical presence and your laughter, so much I drew up a wall between us, to not get too emotioally attached to you.

That's not very smart. Going into a long-distance relationship while rejecting the pain of missing, is like declaring war while rejecting the violence it will cause.

During our last telephone I said: 'Who needs the disappointment of a telephone call?'

'What?'

'It's in a song by Razorlight.'

'I know that. Tell me the title of the song.'

'Why?'

'Just say the title.'

'Who needs love?'

'Yes, if you can't fucking handle the distance, then fucking have the guts to tell me so, straight on.'

You hung up.

Very girly thing to do.

I didn't call back.

Very boyish thing to do.

I still can't listen to Half Japanese without craving your body and wondering in which tent you are sleeping tonight.

13-06-2011 om 01:21 geschreven door Tederdraads