I hate pop-ups and smartasses. But that didn’t stop them from entering my life.
I am fussy about coffee, but I am diseased with politeness. I sit in a bus that’s about to have a heart attack, and I know it’s not for me. And as I wait in the traffic signal, studiously ignoring the little beggar boy, in my plush Mercedes Benz, I know, that’s not for me either.
I have a face that could be from anywhere. I have a voice that is seldom heard. I have hands and feet that could be anybody’s. I have a body, I don’t care much for. I have a cello-taped heart and an indecisive brain. I have a pair of very vague eyes and a smile that’s too easy and meaningless.
I live well enough. I have friends. I have family. I’m not frightfully pretty or frightfully ugly. I’m not morbidly depressed or over the moon happy. I’m your everyday, regular cup of coffee. Or tea. Whatever it is you have.
Come tomorrow, I am going to die. And it’ll be sheer poetry.
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Ms. Ol’Wassername, I’m pleased to announce, has kicked the bucked. Gone, deceased, disintegrated, helloing St. Pete, whatever, whatever…dead. And here I am. An extreme. Brand new hands, brand new feet, a face you’d remember, a voice you’d dream of and eyes that would haunt you forever. Ms. Sex on the Beach. Peachy ‘aint she?
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Unrequited love is a bitch. That’s what the girl next to me keeps saying, in an accent I don’t quite get. It’s the first time I’ve come to this strange city. And she wails, and bawls, and dead soldiers appear from nowhere and one tells me… “You were never a patriot, never will be”.
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Coffee, cruel coffee. Loves to test my patience, still. Cigarettes and magazines scattered everywhere, remind me of a song. A mother, a father and a brother walk around the new apartment looking for this kid. I tell them, she doesn’t live here. And they walk out saying “never mind” and remind me of another song.
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Another day, another job. Another face I remember, another I’d rather not.
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He had a trunk like a tree trunk. And he ate six meals a day. He had perfect teeth and a ghastly voice. He just came into my apartment and refused to go. I had to pick up a cricket bat and chase him away. But then again, it could have been a crow.
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This British boy (I’m sure about this, he was British, he told me so), sat next to me in a hand-pulled rickshaw. I thought it was strange, because I hate hand-pulled rickshaws and I never share my transportation. He told me, I was becoming crazier by the day. And I told him plainly (because I wasn’t diseased with politeness anymore) that, I am fine. I have a perfect body, perfect feet, perfect hands, haunting eyes and a dreamy voice. I am an extreme. So he just got off, and I endured the terrible ride on my own and could not ask the man to stop. When I reached my destination, I realized I was penniless.
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Is it just the Romantics, who keep searching, searching and searching? What is it that they search for? The Holy Grail, Salvation, Love, God, Happiness? How do they write? How do they tell stories? Don’t they ever look at their hands and wonder, “whose are these?”

Well you see Elvis died at 42

He could never get over Elvis dying at 42. Then John Lennon got shot and Kurt Cobain shot himself. He could feel the world collapsing around him. 9/11 happened and his sister confirmed that she was a lesbian, at the same time. What does a man do in a moment of crisis like that? He found solace in this girl called Marianne and they got married and divorced all in a span of three years. He was dissatisfied with his job. He liked designing, but not potato chip packets. He was an artist. Or so he liked to believe. He painted every Sunday in front of the big window facing the lake. Not the scenery outside or anything…I mean come on …it would be the same damn thing all the time then…he did that just once. Maybe twice. Once in water colours, and once in charcoal. He just liked the place, that’s all.

She battled with weight all her life. She tried very hard not to be a cliché. She proved everyone wrong by being happy. She got married and had two children. She had many friends. She had a small, but nice house. She liked to hum songs while changing diapers and cooking. Her husband stayed away a lot. Maybe for work, maybe not. But she did not fret. She was not a worrier. She believed everything happened for a reason, and she couldn’t fight destiny. She read poetry in her free time. She worked in a bookshop. But had to quit after the birth of her second son. But she was fine with that. Really.


They met at the park. Battery Park. He was walking his dog. She was out with her children. Yes, they were lonely. What else did you think? All they needed to do was to meet. And like I said, they did.

Well of course, they fell in love. But she didn’t leave her husband, and he still went to work. They both dreamed of leaving their dreary lives behind and search for a new house in Tuscany that faced the sea. But who doesn’t?

They always met at Battery Park. They talked. They dreamed. They watched her children play. He sometimes painted amidst the falling autumn leaves. She admitted that she used to play the piano and had hoped to play professionally someday. But their house was too small for a piano. And she didn’t have the time anyway. He said he wanted to be Elvis. And was. Every Halloween. They laughed often. Sometimes, if they were hungry, they had a little something from somewhere nearby. She wondered if turning vegetarian would help. He was considering asking for a raise.

Her husband did not recognize the slightly bald, short-sighted man who came to his wife’s funeral. He had something to say. He said “Well, you see Elvis died at 42. And I never got over that. She helped me to. Now I wonder who’ll help me get over her”. He missed her a lot. He was a sentimental man. He quit his job, sold his paintings, got a house in Tuscany that faced the sea and shifted into it a grand piano.