Small town scenes
What is different this summer, is me spending most of my time with the family, instead of the old friends. I found things have changed in the last few years, we chose different paths and different attitudes, and so naturally started to lack things in common. But I am always very happy to see my friends, even that the main topic we discuss each time are the memories of those naughty teens/early twenties, that, to be honest, bores me by now. Instead I rather listen to their complaints about breakfast buns suppliers that are not very nice, or lazy builders.
'Imagine! He asks me for ten euro today, saying he'll be back to finish the floor tomorrow morning first thing', with serious face tells today's story my friend. I don't comment, I just laugh, as I know what that means. I enjoy learning how my friends handle 'stuff', whatever that is.
Full moon shines on the lake's water, night's moisture is settling down in my nostrils, candles are burning in the open air, night's butterflies fly right into the flames and die,
he can't take away his eyes from my sunkissed neck, chest bones and half open shoulders,
me, gently wrapped down from there in my very favourite oversized Paul Costello peach mohair jumper - my feathers,
can't shift the attention from such an impressive wordy expression that he had developed perfectly over the years.
When I tell him this, he laughs in low charming laugh which compliments his great body,
and as he tenderly touches my hand as a Thank You gesture, my knees become weak.
But the answer is No. Can't do that.
As the night rolls into its second half, we realise we don't have anywhere to go. Most of us are either gone to live somewhere else in the world or have young children, or those other ones, who wouldn't appreciate seeing college friends at their door step in the middle of the night. And because heavy summer's rain just passed by, so we can't go to hang out by the river, and all the places are closing down.
The last option is my friend's garage, where in the corner it is a little bar, with a bottle of Smirnoff vodka, four glasses, a few apples and a hand full of sweets. We sit in the car which yet has no wheels, but it's a cabrio and it's antique, has red leather saloon and that old-school toy, tiger, with its head on a spring, and so it moves from the slightest move, nods... on the front panel.
My friend finds some dry old hash for those who don't drink vodka, and the black and white Jim Jarmusch movie begins.
We talk a bit about politics in Lithuania, and then good old time parties, again. Also about the ends of love, for a moment or two, and I get pretty excited here, but my encouragement to discuss that further is silently turned down, for my suggested perspectives are 'too deep', my friends say. The interesting part is that they all 'in tuned' - they understand what, why, and how come, but choose not to talk about those kind of things. Ah, well. Fair enough. I sink into the back seat of red antique leather, loving three of them for what they are, feeling proud of myself being able to love them this way.
In the end of this night, I don't hug or kiss him goodbye. Is that because I don't want to leave myself with too small of the possibilities, or too good of the memories to live my lonely life by, as was suggested by my other friend day or two afterwards?
Not really, no. It's way simpler than that:
I don't mess around with not available man.
even though the mischief in me, five minutes later, feels sorry about not doing that. A goodbye hug and a kiss, I mean. Ten years we haven't met, sweet past lovers. So you know, it's just curious what that h a s n 't been feels like?
But no ram available for such game I have...
Three days later, I drive to the seaside same cool antique car, wearing daisy crown and Californian sunglasses: pink glass, white frame, metal handles white ends,
a kite, and a couple of yellow balloons that my little niece and two nephews have bounded to the boot of the car. Like in the movies, that's right! I've promised my friend a trip to Ireland for that...
The sky is full of white identical croissant shape clouds
I got words for this and the way it fits: it's all about the light and the sound around it
-Emily Wells 'Fair the Well the Requiem'