you didn't want to go. "a Coffee" ?
you said "OK", polite, polite because he's old, older than you father. A teacher.
Rinkles in his faces deep from nose to
mouth. Old. A cut over his lip, dried blood.
I kept looking at it.
he wants a glass of
red wine
"a coffee please"
"no wine?"
I tell him I have to write a paper, he doesn't want to hear. Deaf.
"One must feel the music reinveted from inside"
He talks to my breast.
"Géza Anda, 1969, I'll play it for you at my place."
"No, thank you, I really have to work."
I laughed then, why did I laugh ? It wasn't funny. He wasn't funny.
The waiter gave me a look, remember ?
A knowing superior look
I felt ashamed, guilty.
Nothing happened.
Nothing happened.
Nothing happened.
Nothing happened.
Nothing happened.
Nothing happened.
Nothing happened.
Nothing happened.
That's what people say, don't they ?
"You didn't do anything ? that's what man are like, they do that all the time but it's nothing."
His elbows on the table, glass in both hands, the thumb. He rubbes it against the glass. Hard, over and over.
Does he know he's doing it? He isn't blinking enough.
Stares. Rubbes. Talks and talks.
Stares. Rubbes. Talks and talks.
Stares. Rubbes. Talks and talks.
Stares. Rubbes. Talks and talks.
The Geza Anda recording at his place. He uses the word "sublime". I hate that word. Especially for music.
I hate it but I laugh.
why?
Laughing makes it unreel. It's not happening.
He talks about going to his place again.
"No, thank you, I can't."
His expression changes. His face looks just like the waiter, superior.
As if he really knows me, knows what I want, he knows. I don't.