At the traditional after-exhibit dinner I absentmindedly chewed on my steak seemingly listening to Sheila's drunken monologue. All I could think about was Mr. Kim's face. He looked so masculine, packed with testosterone, yet so polished and cultured. If I ever had a vision of a perfect man, he would fit right into it.
'... and that's how we met', I came back from my thoughts just in time when Sheila finished a tale of her meeting the love of her life, at least that was what she thought.
Glen, or G as we all called him, was one of the most flamboyant people I have ever met. Not a day has passed that he hadn't put on the most atrocious shades of bright colors on himself. Gucci, Versace, Fendi; name a bourgeois brand and he had in his closet (I wondered if he hid something else in there as well). Sometimes I thought that he borrowed pieces from Sheila's large wardrobe, just as much as I did. Underneath all the layers of clothes, and often makeup, hid an attractive man. His flaming eyes held a mischievous glint and I dared to say that he had even better cheekbones than his girlfriend. A gallery owner himself, he found a delightful company in Sheila's presence. The man was the embodiment of contradiction, a raging socialist who spent incredulous amounts of money on fancy things. His favorite drunken shenanigan was to sing 'Hasta siempre comandante' after he thoroughly explained why the teachings of Karl Marx should be resurrected.
'Workers of the world unite; you have nothing to lose but your chains', he often quoted the father of communism over a $200 bottle of Dom Perignon and truffle sauce.
After I mentioned to him that Marx, if he got out of the grave, would probably commit suicide if he saw who quoted him, he stopped talking to me for a month. Only after I bought a fancy collar for his shar pei did he forgive me, which only confirmed my earlier statement about how Marx would see him.
'Oh came on my love, everyone knows that story by now', he spoke to Sheila in his incredibly melodic voice and placed his ring-adorned fingers on top of her hand.
'I don't care. I want everybody to know how much I love you', Sheila slurred back and kissed him clumsily.
The diner attendees cooed at the couple in love and for the first time in their three-year-old relationship, I felt a pang of jealousy watching them. The face of the handsome stranger invaded my thoughts immediately. How could it be that the mere existence of another human being could shake me down to my very core? I started questioning my whole belief system as I let a completely new emotion overpower me. Was this love that everyone talked about, that everyone chased as much as they chased happiness? I had always thought that love was a prison as much as fear was. When you're in love, your whole world becomes a single person. How is he feeling today? Will this decision be okay with him? Is he hungry or cold? Is he going to leave me? How am I supposed to live without him? In the concept of love was no place for selfishness. You constantly give and give and give and ask for nothing in return. There was no place for freedom which was in its very nature a selfish way of life. To be completely free, you have to disregard other people's needs and social conventions and focus purely on yourself. You are not liberated as long as you have something to keep you in one place. That's why they call it settling down. Was it possible to love a mortal and be absolutely free?
'Okay, it's time for me to go', I downed my glass of sparkling water and stood up from a fancy white chair I was so afraid to stain, that I kept my legs closed and uncrossed throughout the entire dinner.
'Diana, staaaaaay!', Sheila uttered barely distinctly and grabbed my hand.
'Babe, you know that I have a 9 a.m. class tomorrow. I need my sleep', I lied barefacedly to my friend knowing fully well that I wasn't going to get any sleep that night.
'Poor is the life of an educator', Glen commented absentmindedly more to himself than to anyone at the table.
'I will see you guys soon. Jack, once again, congratulations on your baby girl! Tell Katy that I'm excited to see her as soon as she recovers properly', I said to the long-haired man with a wide smile while swinging a leather jacket over my shoulders.
The scent of my favorite perfume enveloped my senses. The mixture of lilac, peach, and amber pleasantly tickled my nostrils and awakened a sense of safety somewhere within me. When I got outside it mixed with the smell of fresh spring air, the kind that only appears before big thunderstorms. The wind smelled like distant memories; the figures of parents and grandparents tossed in the farthest corners of my mind appeared again. I saw the sky above my beloved Sarajevo, the color of fresh milk that my grandmother used to bring into the house around dusk, a surreal depiction of God that my childish mind came up with. Even the face of my teacher invaded my brain; a smile etched into her aging face as she spoke gently about the geography of Europe. It felt as if I was in the classroom again; I could hear the chalk scraping against the blackboard, the silent whispers of my classmates, chirping of birds in an oak tree near the school window. Waves of air nonchalantly flipped through a photo album in my head, making me homesick. I buried my head deeper into the soft leather of the jacket's hem as chills of nostalgia ran down my spine. A cigarette in my mouth, which I didn't even know I lighted up, started radiating heat dangerously close to my chapped lips. I threw it on the sidewalk and continued my walk toward the apartment.
The thunderstorm did indeed come that night. Lightning illuminated the incredibly heavy-looking sky, followed by the mighty roar that shook every bone in my body. The breath of fresh air coming from a cracked window made the room inhabitable again, erasing traces of stale smoke and cat urine. For a while I just stood by my window, admiring the unconquerable force of nature. A familiar sense of a reverential fear of God filled my belly and made me exhale deeply through the nose. I turned off all of the neon lights and put on a Fleetwood Mac vinyl record that added the vintage tone to Stevie Nicks' angelic voice. From a wardrobe, I pulled a chiffon shawl, the kind that the singer used to wear back in the 70s, lighted up another cigarette, and started dancing in the dark. In moments like those I wished I could get drunk again. The long-forgotten taste appeared in my mouth making me swallow the excess saliva that flooded my mouth at the mere thought of the chewy red wine which I used to pour down excessively. The handsome face of a painted man lurked from every shadowy corner of the room, making me feel self-conscious in an empty room.
I threw myself on the bed with a huge smile on my face as the record kept on playing thinking how Stevie's music freed me from the eyes of the handsome stranger. I couldn't be more wrong.
Cold sweat was the first thing I felt as I bolted up from my bed as the alarm clock continued playing its monotonous tune. The shawl stuck to my sweaty forehead in the process of tossing and turning throughout the night as I fell asleep fully clothed. The memories of a dream I had turned into ashes as the first rays of the sun burned them without any mercy. My heavy eyes landed on the window and I saw a detoxified, crystal-clear morning sky. A strangely deep voice still echoed through the hollow corridors of my hazed mind telling me that I shouldn't be scared.
'I'm not scared', I heard my hoarse morning voice whispering.
Damien's lazy meow from the other side of the room was all I got in response.
YOU ARE READING
The Peculiar Life of Miss Diana
RomanceOdysseus is a woman, and she is descending into madness.
