2015/02/16 - Monday (Aveiro, Portugal)
... the tension was more than I was willing to put up with... 6 AM and my eyes are wide open, not seeing but hearing the rain bouncing off the balcony tiles... Suzanne was sound asleep and I restless both in body and mind... I get up and walk around the apartment, like a fish in a tank I look out the windows from my 8th floor apartment...I need to get out...as I get dressed her voice echoes the same phrase... stay in bed... and I mumble repeatedly, I need air...not one of the most intellectual conversations ever known to the human race... mind you the echo versus mumbling combo says a lot about my state if not ours...
... once outside... my first breath is filled with cold damp air, reminds me of autumn in Montreal... looking at my watch, dismay sets in as the bistro I go to only opens in a couple of hours... with drizzling rain as my only friend... I walk downtown where I suspect a pastry/bakery coffee shop may open this early... approaching downtown and looking up at the drenched gray clouds... I see a glow, a neon light glow to be precise... this neon glow was coming from the coffee shop...how intense was the glowing light?... so intense a blind man could see his shadow... cataracts are burned off... the type of glow airplane pilots look for as identifying landmarks... and if the conditions are right, may seem like the Virgin Mary appearing over an olive tree to 3 homely kids whose parents sent them off to some remote field for herding entertainment... as I sit there alone reflecting endlessly that I am here because she is back home, why did I leave?... after tanning alone under the neon lights for hours...customers are now coming in... unbeknownst...soon to be victims of my creative malicious observations...
...since history repeats itself...it's the same old scenario here in this coffee shop...three very old ladies with overdone pumped up hair styles...aging aristocrats who are as ugly outside as inside... my judgement is not solely based on the physical appearance, but on the conversation I hear emanating from the aerosolized stool odor floating over their pasty burgundy lipstick encrusted coffee cups... at night their pillows act as hairdressers, therefore they must sleep like stiffs in a coffin not to misplace a hair until the morning when complimented by another overdose of hair spray... so much so that any flying insect who had the misfortune of flying into the hairspray mist trajectory would be crystalized instantaneously... in the insect world, this isa worse death than impacting on a car windshield...
... with such blindingly vulgar golden engagement rings and wedding bands... though they may be married, who would fuck these sleeping stiffs with brittle cunts... the only husbands who could crack and fuck women like these are men who can afford hookers who'd willingly lick their urine scented vulture head shaped cocks... at night two contemptuous beings who were joined together by the sanctity of the church's worst, still unpunished pedophile priests... this spousal sin sleeping in the same bed with the accumulated warmth of 3-day old semen stuck to anal linings...
... this is where plastic grocery bags though environmentally and politically incorrect may serve a purpose... in the advent of a surprise rainfall, leaving the coffee shop to get into their son-in-laws car without getting rained upon on the plasticised pumped hairdo, the bag serves a second purpose as a hair protector... so, that favourite green slogan of ecologists... re-use... may actually, be contained in reality...
...our hero...you know I'm referring to the son-in-law, right?...is there no soccer game today or is he that amorous of the mother-in-law, that he would actually step out on a rainy day just to pick her up at the coffee shop... such a noble and caring endeavour, for one to care about the old lady but equally or more, be concerned about her hair getting wet... seriously, was he ever exposed to a high dosage of hairspray that seized his brain synapses from impulsing... our hero is here because the wife (a clone of the old lady) did not ask but told him to pick up her mother... the technological illiterate mother and daughter team have mastered enough smart phone skills to make our hero's life a misery...
...maybe he has reached a point of no return, those few minutes of driving the car until reaching the coffee shop are a meditative lapse of time...the repetitive orchestrated sound of the wipers, squealing against the wet glass, transport him if only for a brief moment to a numbing serenity... for this seductive and inducing rhythm comes to a braking halt when he stops the car and the impact of the old lady's non-musical hands are fighting with the locked door handle which distorted the soothing musical melody... almost there...he has not yet reached the point of no return...cause now he is driving back home with a barking hairdo sitting next to him... soon he will be sitting at the table, being fed and taken care of... his future is in front of him...as he looks meekly at the enormous hairdo supported by a dry raisin body thingy... he sees his future in the mother-in-law and his present in the wife... is this his point of no return, where he must make sure to have money for hookers...
YOU ARE READING
Paper Cigarette
Random...... ...Paper Cigarette (slices of life)... ...for better or for worse, what happens on the Camino does not always stay on the Camino.... .. it's a journal style novel (fiction)....... it's about a man who inadvertently finds himself on the Santia...
