She leaves the first piece of the puzzle in his back pocket. It is the velvet of her hair and a little part of her eyebrow. She had ordered the puzzle a few days ago, made out of a black and white picture of her standing naked behind his guitar. She had written a short sentence over the strings. That was all. If things between them had been ordinary, she could give him a call or text him or even send him an e-mail. It’s a trivial world after all. Yet, ever since the first time they met, their frantic yearning to escape their own worlds had drawn them together and made them victims of their own perversions. The week before she had given him a silver ladybird. She had written on a note ‘To reach the right moment in your life, all you need to do is open your wings’. He had pushed the wings of the lady-bird and a clock-face had appeared with the hands pointing at 11:11. Time to wake up.
That day he had run to their place just to find her with that big brown coat of hers, too big for her (the first she ever bought for herself). She wore nothing underneath. Was it presumptuous to expect that the right moment was actually the one spent with her? As I said, she left the first piece of the puzzle in his back pocket. If they weren’t presumptuous about the things they expected from each other, they would have never been able to endure the nothingness beyond their desires.
She turns her head nervously as if she can't find a place in this world to hide the other pieces. It is strange how, out of the sudden, the entire universe opens before her and appears as nothing other but an endless translucent horizon. She half-smiles. Blind and lost is she, blind and lost, is she every time when she tries to figure out the secrets of this world. In the very moment, when she wanted to use it to hide her secrets, it failed to present its hiding places with grandeur. This is it. It failed with grandeur. If only the universe was strong enough to endure her smirk!
He had said a while ago that there is going to be a child in his life soon, very soon. She was sure that he wanted her to ask him why or what were the signs or who fills his head with such presumptuous thoughts. She hadn’t asked him. She had half-smiled. She had spilled the glass of water on the table and a single bead remained intact on the cloth. She did not let him burst it open. Maybe one day, after many years, she would put her half-smiles together, the way he was meant to put the pieces of her puzzle, and they would make sense. This Thursday morning remains directed by slumberous Lynch.
As I said, she leaves the first piece of the puzzle in his back pocket. The night before, she had heard violins. She had screamed, she had moaned, she had dug her fingers in his skin…The neighbours would have heard the trivial part of it all and she…she had heard violins… Another tired half-smile. The poor universe. It is all trivial, all right. Yet, the meaning of it all was sucked into a simple tired half-smile. And it belonged to her.
She drops the pieces of the puzzle on the wooden floor. It squeaks. She had heard the same squeak once before. A cat had bit into a red-blue bird. It was a small bird with poppy-hearted eyes. Of course, she had run barefoot towards it but it had been too late. It had been the beginning of a spring and she had stepped over cold grass that tickled her feet. That was it. That was it: the most hedonistic, most perfect moment in her life. That particular tickle. That particular spring. That particular bird dying.
There should have been someone to photograph her in this very moment. Naked, bent over the wooden floor, picking up puzzle pieces with hasty fingers and curls falling down the string of her back. Black and white cadre. The most beautiful part of her, the string of her back. Perhaps this was the reason why her mother had said a million times to her five-year-old self to sit up straight in the chair. She had had in mind that photograph of her daughter.
Assuming they were all ordinary, what would they have done? Leaving secret notes instead of cooking a meal together, huge chandeliers of hotel rooms with green walls instead of having their names on the same post box. Puzzles, mysterious messages, euphemisms. Instead of getting a dog together, instead of asking ‘how was your day’. If she hadn’t run towards that squeaking bird, if she had opened her mouth when it rained and drank some patience.
As I said, she leaves the first piece of the puzzle in his back pocket. There are a million possible ways this could go. He could slide his hand when looking for a note to pay a newspaper. The piece could fall on the floor and be stepped onto by exactly 43 people before torn apart completely. It wouldn’t happen like this, of course. He doesn’t really read newspapers. He could put the jeans into the wash and the piece could be rotated exactly 3423 times before torn apart completely. He doesn’t empty his pockets normally, but this time he would. At least this is the feeling I have. Personally, I have had a lot of feelings, lately. Impulses. Ideas of how one thing or another is going to go. If there are a million possibilities, why don’t they happen? For her, the only one that matters is him finding the first piece of the puzzle. Of him half-smiling, maybe even closing his eyes for a second. A perfect moment, he stood down the harbor, the decisive sounds of ships knowing where they are sailing to. The breeze moving slowly his hair, him just finishing a thought about Seneca who said that if the ship doesn’t know which direction to take, no wind is going to be fair. Then him scrolling down his fingers and finding a piece of a puzzle. The velvet of her hair and a part of her eyebrow.
The wooden floor squeaks again and she turns her head scared. The door is still closed. How many doors have they opened? Rushing to get in, to dig fingers into each other, to listen to violins. She remembers the first, with the number 11 on it. You had to push it harder to open.
If they had a house, she would have painted the door red. She would have insisted that they get a round bed. She would have wanted only this. It is a trivial world, after all…
When she was 14, she had made a coffin for her first hamster that died. She had cried, written a poem and painted the little box black. She had buried it near the road she used to go jogging on. Later on, she buried two dogs and a cat near the same road. The universe smirks. If only she had the strength to endure that smirk!
If they had a house, with a red-painted door and a round bed in it, they would have had a dog and a cat. Eventually she would have needed a road to bury them near. Was this the reason why she was so scared now, in this very moment, turning her head towards the door? But the door is still closed, only prismatic fear spilled on the wooden floor. If only she knew where to hide the other pieces. It is a trivial world, after all. They had crucified one concept and raised on pedestal another.
Yet, I have had a lot of feelings lately. Impulses. Ideas of how one thing or another is going to go. Perhaps I will try to find a reason for her agony. Not that she is agonising, no. As I said, she leaves the first piece of the puzzle in his back pocket. Then she drops the other pieces and bends over, naked, to pick them up from the wooden floor. You see no fear, no agony, no contradiction there, do you? Nor do I. There are a million possible ways this could go and I have had a feeling lately.
Rumor has it that a man is attracted to a mysterious woman. She doesn’t believe in rumors. A few years ago she lost respect for the general public. That’s why. She is finishing picking up the puzzle pieces.There is a tender thought crawling in her, caressing nerve cells, leaving a soft tickle between her legs. She knows what I know or what I had a feeling for. Of course, it is going to happen exactly in this way. You see, ideas are strong enough to make you smirk at the universe. The poor universe!
She dresses quickly and leaves the room with warm hands full with puzzle pieces. She knows where she is sailing to. She doesn’t need Seneca to romanticise hopeless winds, elapsing directions or forsaken ports…
He never sees her again. That’s what she leaves him. The first piece of a puzzle in his back pocket. The velvet of her hair and a part of her eyebrow.
She half-smiles. She robs him out of the red-painted door, out of a round bed and a cat and a dog buried near a road. That’s one way to look at it. Yet, I have had a feeling, lately. A feeling that she saves him from a trivial world, after all.
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