Monday, May 11, 2009

It was past 3 AM and they were on skype. He was speaking, but she felt the need to type her responses instead. For some strange reason, she always preferred it that way. "You would," he'd said. "But it's okay, I think it's cute." Offhanded comments, as if he knew her. I believe in you. He said things like that often. As if their relationship was based on a past, a past where he knew her, a past where he understood her, a past filled with endless late night conversations over nothing. They'd met in a basement bar, near close, in a hostel in Vienna a few months back. He'd been trying to hit on her friend, offered the friend a shot of tequila, but somehow the friend got caught up in a shaggy haired aspiring film maker from LA instead. So, by accident, they got lost in conversation, and she decided he was all right. All right for the evening, entertaining enough.

She came home, with dreams of Paris. A city she never cared for, but he was studying there. It was never a coincidence, nothing ever really is. An aspiring architect. She equated the occupation to that of a writer. Creator of things, makers of something out of nothing versus most ordinary occupations, imitators, a life's work of regurgitation, money makers. Nothing with weight is ever a coincidence, and assigning weight is our choice. "When are you visiting Paris? You should come," he'd said. But she had changed her mind. She got scared. These ideas were always fun to toy with. To get lost in. It's funny how the state of intoxication allows people to dream and hope to live with reckless abandon, but in the light of the morning, we all retreat back into our ordinary shells, for fear, of everything. Their conversations operated with a sense of depth on the surface, but underneath it all, she knew she didn't feel it. She couldn't feel it.

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