ONE late night.

ONE late night at this club in my city of the very moment, where it was one fellow lady’s task and profession to sit in front of the restroom waiting for strangers to rub and massage lotion into their sometimes just cleaned palms with her own hands (oh, what is this world made of? – it’s made of dirt, my dear, and stars), she took one hand of the stranger who was stopping for these twenty seconds before entering a conversation or the dancefloor again, she took it between her neat and rather big hands and massaged it kindly, with a subtle force that hid the tranquil boredom that must overcome her these nites.

on this ONE night, as i’d said already, in this world you made people fly, my love, with the music that dropped from your fingertips into that high-spirited surrounding we moved in, just like the sweet rain that fell on the day i left you behind. and i was about to lose myself in some kitsch images of worlds apart intertwining into a shared future and all the stuff that comes with it, greener pastures and dedication, the full package, when/then on the dancefloor a man came up to me, interrupting my moves by putting his hand on my arm, pulling me towards him, thereby forcing me to make my right cheek meet the sour smell of booze and smokes that he spread. he asked loud enough for the neighbours to hear: have you lost your mind, girl?, and i thought about this as carefully as i’m convinced one should because the question touches states of being that i sometimes can identify with, looking at the reflection a mirror in someone’s, hellyessomeone’s bathroom offers me late at any other night. but looking back at me now from the freshly imagined bathroom mirror was a brighter version of this former me, glooming eyes, desire, all that jazz written on cheeks and lips, so what’s the point, my friend?, i asked and he insisted on inquiring that i asked you if you have lost your mind, girl.

some things on this earth make me slightly angry, as my fellow creatures might know, it takes a while to get me there but when i’ve arrived i won’t leave too soon. one of the roads to this delicate state of bitchiness has a street sign reading ‘call me girl with this very air of paternalistic disrespect’ at its corner. this lack of manners mostly comes along with a comment on what the speaker would like to do with me if we weren’t in public or any other random note that carries along a boring sexual connotation providing a feeling of superiority for him and disgust for me, from which i have to reactivate my wits to pay the speaker back. so, girl, he called again, after i pointed out that i’m feeling wonderful and fine and do not worry and rather return to your glass that is waiting there on the stained table for you, sir, it is probably the better partner in conversation for you at the moment anyway. i waved a short red nailed goodbye at him and went back to the music that had entered my body, but he came up to me again, this time pulling me harder towards him: girl, don’t you know that touching a black person is like touching shit?

he grinned as he saw me losing my countenance for a short second. this i hadn’t expected, all out of a sudden, music and all that, and then this cretin annoying me with this major unfinished business fermenting inside his nutshell of a head. so there he stood all sleazy and happy and i bent over saying sharply that those surrounding us could hear that i really hope you get over your little ideologies one of these days, i’m terribly sorry that you’re still stuck there, must be lonely at times, and i turned away from this rather disenchanting encounter, sorry for him and the night that had started off so perfectly fine in this disrupted yet beloved city whose lights wrote glowing promises into the darkness. and yet i couldn’t get my thoughts from that encounter because i wondered where that guy might live, what he might be doing to make ends meet, how he might get along with what he believes to be right and how many of his friends would pat him on the back when he finally went back to his beer surrounded by greasy dabs, complimenting him on showing the white chick kissing the black guy the way things are. in this country? in whose minds?

and i did not really notice that the music had stopped and suddenly you stood there in front of me all smiling and i told you about what i had heard and said and you just shrugged your shoulders with that ease i cannot show at times, mentioning that there’ll always be idiots around and why the hell do you care? and you kissed me and made your point with that. and i thought that this is probably the way to go, one that tastes quite fine as well, yet still for a short sec i wanted to pull back from you to keep my anger and transform it into something evil, something that lasted longer than this one night, but you told me to shut up in that persiflage of predominance that always makes me laugh, so i let it flow, let it flow away into a pool of compassion with those retarded folks out there whose satisfaction it was for the rest of the night to show me vulgar moves with their hands meant to illustrate what they imagined my hands to do to the gentleman of my choice. yessir, that’s exactly the point. so what’s the point?

i couldn’t help but thinking of my fellow lady sitting there forced by structures that outlived the system that made them emerge to touch the hands of female equivalents of my foe of choice for that very night, and i wished her strength to stick to a pride that is above such things, as she must be doing in any case, approximately five nights per week, at this spot where you made us fly, over the promising lights and the sticky grease of the (still) contemporary.


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