The Dreams That Were Dreamt

Chapter Thirteen: Cindy

''Do you want red or white wine? I'm kidding, that's not a question. We only have white.'' Out from the kitchen she came with three half empty bottles of wine and sat down next to me on the floor.

''Cindy, why do you open another bottle before finishing the first one,'' I complain. 

''Because I'm afraid it has gone bad so I buy another. Then I'm afraid that one has gone bad so I buy another one and another one and another one.'' It was an answer that was indicative of Cindy, one of her Cindyisms. I could have recorded that phrase and play it to whomever asked who she was because it said everything you needed to know. That's not true, of course. She was much more than someone who hoarded bottles of white wine. Cindy was the most important person in my life right now and, oftentimes, I would look at her and feel incredibly lucky that she wanted me in her proximity. I wanted to question why she didn't just pour the wine down the drain if she thought it had gone bad. But it wasn't worth it. I know what answer I would get. Besides, had she disposed of it we wouldn't have had anything to drink right now. After she had spent time talking about the graphic design of the labels on the bottle she poured me a full glass from the bottle she thought was the newest one.

''Am I not the nicest person,'' she asks. I couldn't argue with that. She did have the kindest of hearts. It was late in the evening, a warm summer night. It was one of those nights where you couldn't wrap your head around how the warmth of the now absent sun could still linger in the corners of everywhere. The double doors to the balcony behind us were open, but it didn't do much to challenge the temperature of the room. It did however seem to neutralize the smell of our sweaty socks.

''Maybe we should save some wine for Reggie. You know how he gets when we're in his room. But, lucky for us, he doesn't work for the rest of the weekend so he might be in a better mood, who knows,'' she explained and poured herself a glass from the bottle with the elephant label. Reggie's room was the living room, all three of us knew that. Their apartment only had one bedroom, but it was a big one bedroom apartment. The bedroom was big, they had a big kitchen with a dishwasher, the living room (Reggie's room) was huge, the bathroom had a shower and a bathtub and they had four or five meters to the ceiling. It was a great location. But it was a sublet, and it showed on the rent. They basically subsidized their landlords pension; an older couple that had escaped this land. I hated how this world operated. I sometimes wondered why they didn't just have a shared bedroom. They both fell asleep in the same bed all the time anyways. 

Reggie had a big and comfortable bed. The three of us had fallen asleep in it numerous times. But it could definitely be traded for a couch. Reggie didn't have a lot of things in his room besides the TV and the drawers where he kept his clothes. He didn't hang any of his clothes up on hangers, but I had never seen him with as much as wrinkle on his T-shirt. This had always befuddled me. On his walls were a couple of comic book pages that he had framed and by the TV Cindy had her gaming consoles stacked. That was just about it. His room did hold the piece de resistance of the apartment though; the balcony. It wasn't huge but it was wide and it had the most amazing view. You could see into all the other rich people apartments like it was a doll house. The trouble was that you could barely step out on it because of all the plants that Reggie took care of. He was the type of person that would babysit plants of his friends when they went on vacation or when they just wanted someone to revive them. He could revive and remedy any green. I envied him for that talent.

Cindy's room was the place where all the personality was. Her bed was smaller than Reggie's and the sheets were less of a statement piece. She shared the room with about a dozen of canvases and paintings of hers. They covered every inch of the walls. The ones she hadn't hung up were stacked in rows and leaned against all of her four walls. Her desk was a chaotic world of different kind of acrylics, brushes and pencils. She was the most amazing painter. I had never known how paintings could really touch you and make you feel something before I saw her work. She painted portraits and landscapes and these abstract surrealistic sceneries. The way she spoke about art and what inspired her almost made me jealous. I was jealous of how you could feel so passionate about something. I wish I felt that strongly about something. I had tried to talking her into having a vernissage or a showing of her work, but she was always hesitant to that suggestion. ''I'm afraid that will take the fun out of it. I don't paint for anyone else,'' she would say. I could understand what she meant. But her work was just too good for something to be discovered after her death.