sleeping away

From within my fortress I go out on patrol, alone or with a fellow civilian soldier. Occasionally, an enemy is confronted, preferably with a home field advantage. She (it’s always a she; we don’t regard men as adversaries, although there’s always one lurking in the shadows) is then alternately exposed to beastly intoxication & radiant personalities of the pair of us, soldiers. They present us with a sweet & sour bit of exalting & extorting comedy || tragedy || drama. Plastic & fantastic. Touch & taste. In the end, everybody wins. Especially all who lose. It’s just the way we soldiers are. Praise us. Amuse us.

- Hi there – says I, and smile.
- Hello – she responds. More of a confused grin than a smile.
- So, i’ve seen you around. I know where you live! – a casual “scary movie psycho” impression while I say that – I mean, I know the building: it’s the new gray one with some green & red thingies on it.
- Ah, a stalker. Should I be scared?
- No, I’m not really that kind of a stalker.
- And what kind are you?
- I’m more of a “seen you in between the bus stop and your building a couple of times and hoping to meet you every time I go out” kind.
- And now you’ve met me.
- I don’t know. did I?
- I’m Red.
- Blue.
We shake hands. She has long fingers; she’s thin – perhaps even bony, but her skin appears as resilient as a girl’s skin can be without abolishing that all impotrant feminine frailty it embodies. She’s smiling, and so do I. It’s all good.
- And now we know each other – I end the silence. She starts walking home: I follow as she continues the introduction game.
- I don’t know. do we?
- I sure hope not. I know your name, and I think I know a few more things.
- Oh, and what is it that you “think” you know?
- Heh – i act embarrassed – well, I believe you’re some kind of an art or architecture student: I’ve seen you carrying one of those big A3 tubes with you.
- An observant stalker, are you? What else?
- Not much. You sometimes tap your thighs while you walk. and I know that my roommate instinctively started doing the same when we came across you a few days ago: to get your attention, presumably.
- Yeah, I remember that. He completely baffled me: I got carried away, and he made me become aware of the tapping.
- Well, he had to get your attention somehow because, you see, he fell instantly in love with you.
- Oh did he really?
We’re laughing now. It’s even better than smiling.
- Yes, he did acctually, factually, desperately, fatally fall in love with the idea of you.
- An idea of me?
- You, or his or mine or your own idea of you, it’s all the same, isn’t it? It is love that matters. – an effort toward romantic confusion on my behalf. She smiles, but retorts adequately.
- What matters is that one doesn’t jump to conclusions, ‘cause one might be disappointed when one’s expectations aren’t met. One being you or your roommate or myself, for that matter.
- That’s just what i tell him.
We are already at the doorway of her building. It seems like she’s considering inviting me in, but I know she would eventually decide not to, so I spare her a few undecisive moments.
- But no jumping to conclusions necessary: all you should do is hop over to that pinky-peachy building down at the intersection, and all questions will be answered.
- I might just do that.
- I hope you do that. Do you want my number, to announce yourself – not that it is required or anything… or can I have yours, as to formally invite you?
- Whatever..
..the fuck ever

music: "Turn On The Bright Lights" - Interpol
movie: "Last Tango In Paris" - Bernardo Bertolucci