My cellphone rings at 11-something PM. On a Sunday. After spending all day as a vegetable, it surprises me to get a party/drunk/booty call at this hour, but it’s not unheard of.

New call from: Sofia
                                             Answer?”

Shit.

For a moment there I toyed with the idea of not answering. The “No” button looks so appealing sometimes, you know? (I have long been convinced that all of us should have a “LIKE HELL” button built in. It would make dissent antiseptic and much, much easier — This is one design flaw I’m sure I’ll take up to proper management when I rest underground).

*Click* - Yes.

— “Sofia… How… surprising”
— “Hi! Say, could you come outside for a minute?”
— “You’re outside??”
— “Yeah, I’m outside”

Oh, FUCK, oh, sweet fucking fuck! Now I’ve done it! She read my posts on the site, and she’s come to kill me! Kill me dead, I tell you!

— “Ok, I’ll be right there.”

I put on my coat, scribble a quick “Sofia did it. Search for proof on my computer” note, and head outside into the cold air.

When I see her, I’m suprised. To tell the truth, I half expected her to be carrying a bat (the hitting variety, not the sleeping upside-down kind). Instead, she’s wearing one of those spongy-looking jackets and carrying a Norah Jones CD.

I’ve always loved how a lot of her clothes make her look smaller than she is.

At first she’s apologetic, and tells me she even considered bringing candy to bribe me (too bad she didn’t, it would have worked). I ask for an explanation, but she doesn’t offer much except that she wanted to give me back the CD. I surprise myself by not pushing the issue further.

I surprise myself by not pushing the issue further.

And the thing is: If there is something more to this, I don’t want to know. And that’s a very recent realization. One of those states you’ve long entered but did not acknowledge until they are sitting naked in front of you, staring back at your face. Like AIDS. Or advanced leprosy.

We walk for a while. We talk about menial stuff. We both agree that routine is eating away at us. We both agree that we should do something about it. I thank her for the CD. I kiss her goodnight. I go for the cheek. I don’t know if the mouth is available, but I don’t want to find out.

I make it a point of not looking back while I walk back home.

Twenty minutes later, Norah Jones is still on Repeat.

I could almost go there…

                           Just to live in a dream”

Indeed.

— sergio on December 13, 2004