Până când să tot fiu în umbra unor mari scriitori care lansau foiletoane acu’ 200 de ani și se dădeau șmecheri că au un club al lor cu nume de ceai (Pickwick). Eu uitasem de aceste aspecte și era cât pe ce să mă dau inventatoarea foiletonului, de se răsucea bietu’ Dickens în mormânt.
Îmi zice Manafu că i se pare că literaturii noastre (chick lit evident) îi lipsește un roman scris din perspectiva lui (a bărbatului) și de aici a răsărit ideea. Să scrii un roman durează, așa că m-am gândit să fie foileton și mai ales să fie interactiv. Eu voi fi narator woman și o să încerc să fiu imparțială, dar asta o să decidă acei cititori care aleg să urmărească povestea. O să scriu în frumosul grai al reginei (Ana, Elisabeth) pentru că așa cum spunea prietenul Groparu: „Eu și Groparu, pe care-l cunosc foarte bine, iubim… să pocesc limba română care cere violul, să traduc, … să mă aud vorbind, să văd oameni puternic complexaţi…”
Here goes nothing (că n-am titlu deocamdată)
Date: January 2016
Place: Băneasa Mall, the launch of new collection of some stupid bracelet with charms.
It’s another ‘one of those Thursdays’ in the tackiest mall of Bucharest or nearby. Outside it’s freezing cold and people gather from their workplaces for a quick dinner or window shopping session. It’s only the almost poor or above average income that still hunt for the winter sales. I won’t be worrying about them, because now I am focusing on those that seem to think of themselves as the belly button of this small universe. This is not LA, nor London, it’s just Bucharest! Don’t be fooled by the fresh air, it’s the sub zero temperatures that keep you from noticing the exhaust fumes. A few huddled up workers of the Mall avidly inhale the average Romanian drug – a cigarette.
I walk through the galleries invaded by artificial lights and sparkling shops – fancy overpriced silver items alluring the women eyes and making men dream of late-night rewards. Small round bar tables are spread and the so called networking seems to be flourishing in spite of the damn cold of temperate climate.
I look around and notice her amidst a few men, laughing with her mouth open and head pushed back. Her luscious hair falls below her shoulders, while she tilts her head back. Seems a natural dark chestnut with honey reflexes. She is one of those little women that like to climb the 12 cm heels to feel important. Or maybe I am just mean, cause the short dress and cowboy boots become her, although one may think she could lose a few kilos. That was also mean! No jewelry, no hideous long necklace, just a small simple silver ring on the left hand (married?!) and a black wooden one on the middle right hand finger. She keeps fidgeting that one under the table as an anxiousness sign. The laughter seems to be kind of a self defense weapon, ‘cause she’s using it a lot, although men around her are busy making jokes. It’s hardly noticeable, for them I mean, to capture the eyes that swipe the room in search for new audience or new spectacle. She is slightly bored and her mind is working fast for a polite escape excuse. Well, honey… you might be in luck tonight!
„I am so fucking bored!” is the look on this guy. Yeah, she saw him, he seems to be doomed. She gave her the old cliché with the clean/good shoes and he seems to have passed the test. He is above average tall, 40 or something, although the hair is dark black. Nothing special about him either, maybe he is one of those expats that hangs out late and crawls to his fancy apartment for a dreamless night. Or maybe the Pipera corporatist type, one that is happily married to his job as analyst or something boring to do with numbers. He saw her and suddenly his posture changed. The conversation with the buddies that dragged him to this event, fade. Maybe he was never interested by the looks of the sudden change. But nah… something is wrong with a picture of the two put together, like him drawing a long shadow on the walls, strangely tall and her filling up small gap in a wall, just like small girls like to hide beneath tables to play.
– Hey, he says, after a bold move toward her table and him leaning on his elbow to reach her height. A smart move in my opinion, as he sets a barrier between her and her companions. I know we met before, but I am such an ass that I forgot your name. Forgive me!
– I have the exact same feeling, she says, her eyes really grateful. Graciously she puts one tiny hand on this forearm to let him notice the appreciation. Her hand is nice, no long painted hideous nails, but pinkish ones that complete long fingers. He noticed the hands, she thinks! It’s Iunia with N, as in June.
– What, he says, I am sorry again… I didn’t catch that!
– My name is Iunia as the feminine for the month of June. I really appreciate you rescuing me.
– My pleasure, Iunia! The things I am willing to do for a damsel in distress like you…
– Was I really? I hate being in distress, but there’s nothing I hate more than being a damsel…
– My name is Ben, but my friends call me Jerry as I am great fan of Seinfeld… stupid immature friends, I know.
– It’s pretty reassuring they don’t call you George so I’d start displaying my dancing skills for the crowd while shouting Stela, Stela…
Iunia laughs out loud, this time for real, as she is pleased with her joke. Ben&Jerry takes her little hand and keeps it in his for a few seconds. Hey fool, don’t kiss it, this isn’t the Middle Ages! For a second their eyes meet and he releases the hand saying: I am glad I rescued you!