PRAGUE BLUES
Loneliness is a Big Part of Humanity (Part I)
By Thor Garcia
PRAGUE (CNS) – The two painfully, egregiously injured people stood in the plaza outside the great cement and plastic mall. They had met for cocktails, then gone to see a Nicole Kidman film about death, about futile attempts to escape death. Movies are only about death, he mentioned. Death and killing is the point of the show – of all shows. “Really?” she had inquired, adding a laugh. “Well, yes,” he had replied. “Or what else would you say?” “I think I’ll have to think about that,” she said. He had reached over and taken her hand during the film. She had responded, squeezing his hand and several times and even pulling it down between her thighs when something frightful or unexpected occurred on the screen (which wasn’t often – ED.). The great cement and plastic mall, strung with garlands of tiny lights, glowed in the snowy mist. They shivered as they stood at the stop, waiting for her tram. She wore a black coat, a red scarf, shiny knee boots with buckles. He had on a black coat and grey slacks. “Wow, I had a really nice time,” he said. “Thank you so much.” She smiled. “Oh, I had a nice time, too.” He stepped forward to hug her. He figured she would want to go home alone, as she had the times before, and so he had gone for the early hug, as much to do it as to get it out of the way. To his surprise, she came forward and wrapped her arms around him. She snuggled close, moving her nose and lips against his exposed neck. The tip of her nose was sharply cold. But her lips were warm and soft. He brought up a hand and moved it through her long brown dark hair. She kissed his neck and he let her. After a minute longer, he knew it was his time to take control of the situation. Gently but firmly, he tilted back her head and kissed her on the mouth. She pushed her tongue between his lips. He was mildly startled. “Oh, my gosh,” she said, pausing to exhale. “I haven’t kissed anyone for so long.” “Oh, me neither,” he said. She slipped her cool fingers into his shirt opening, leaned forward and whispered in his ear: “This is kind of fun. I can catch another tram.” She took his hand and pulled him into the intersection. “C’mon, let’s go sit on that bench.” She was 32 and wore glasses with black rims. She wasn't tall, but not short. You wouldn’t call her thin or fat. A few small moles dotted her face, mostly around the mouth. He had met her through a “Women Seeking Men” page on the internet, dashing off a drunken e-mail explaining how he was – probably – the exact guy she was looking for. he had put a call out for men “both fiercely intelligent and fiercely kind.” She was obviously more than a little confused, he felt. But her enthusiasm, despite the obviously depleted hopes, was sort of cute. She would later tell him that his response – along with the six-year-old photo of him – had been the both the best written and the “strongest” of the more than sixty replies she had received. (More than half of the men who answered, she had said, were “old creeps” in their 50s and 60s, including many who claimed to be writing from Dubai and Qatar.) She had been in town less than six months, working as a reporter for The Business Gazette. She was taking a Tuesday night class to learn the tango. She confessed, without hesitation, that her favorite band in high school had been The Smiths. These days, she related, her favorite performer was the dark and mopey, yet brutally hilarious and acid-tongued Elliott Smith, an appreciation that had grown ever since Elliott’s sudden demise (stabbed himself or was stabbed by someone, there seemed to be some question). She was a graduate in Comparative Literature from the University of Colorado. Four or five years ago, she had gone to England to earn a master’s degree from Oxford in Jewish Studies. But, she added, she was not Jewish. Indeed, she added, her parents were "Christian maniacs." It was merely “something interesting to do.“ Holding hands, they moved into a darkened cement courtyard and sat on a bench. Within minutes she was laying on top of him. The stores and restaurants had all closed. The public courtyard was curiously private, he thought, the only light provided by a row of dim globes. She plunged into him with what seemed a desperate fury, pushing one hand past his belt buckle and into his pants. She made sure he was hard, then began to grind herself. He sucked at her neck, pushed his hands down the back of her skirt and squeezed her ass through her black knit stockings. Hers was a soft ass – soft and squishy. Softer than soft, he thought. He was grateful for her passion, but the night was cold and he found it uncomfortable having an erection under such conditions. He had finally stopped drinking at ten that morning, and after six hours sleep. . . . He was relieved when a bum rolled his shopping cart into the area and sat on the bench across from theirs. The vagrant drank from a cardboard box of wine, hiccupped and moaned, looking at them like they were performers in the circus. They sat up, slightly unnerved. The bum waddled over and asked if they happened to have a cigarette. He handed one over, and a second for good luck, then lit the bum with his lighter. After lighting one for himself, he handed the bum the lighter for extra good luck. Not a problem – as a professional smoker, he carried several spares. She leaned against his shoulder, one of her hands in his crotch, as he smoked. “Maybe you want to come to my place?” she said. “Probably not for sex . . . but I’d like to cuddle. You know? It’s so cold. We could warm each other up.” Not – not sex? “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Sure. Sounds good.” TO BE CONTINUED |
Pamphlet. Magazine - 2014 -