Fórum das idéias e textos que surgem na minha cabeça em momentos variados. Textos de todos os tipos que traduzem a minha natureza de escritor à linguagem visual.
EU SOU
idéias em construção
pensamentos fugidios
curiosidade encarnada
vontade delirante
devoção convicta
ironia escancarada
extravagância desmedida
loucura contida
felicidade maravilhada
sensibilidade voraz
comunicador por excelência
sexta-feira, janeiro 09, 2004 Rush hour
On the other side of her door lay the stockings of another business casual nine-to-five. If she'd had a drink, perhaps she'd have unwound by now. It's late and lights shine with that greater intensity of lonely nights.
On the kitchen sink ice cubes lay scattered next to the empty glass for her shot of nothing. Headache medicine sat atop the day's Times as usual, the business pages in the garbage next to her table of cold coffee and half eaten toast. The refrigerator had the glacial buzz of a fly magnet. Batteries run dry everywhere.
She stripped her feet of the towering high heels of corporate brunches. The clock struck three in the morning. The doorman gave her the usual interrogating look as she waved him by with her winter coat. The snow was just too much that evening. She wondered why rain couldn't just fall as it would into a great ocean.
The lights were a blur. Everything was a blur. Manhattan was no island, sea and sky were welded together in a great nothing of smoke and mist. She was about to give up, throw the high heels out the window and take a breath. And then the red telephone rang.
"Let me see you tonight," said the voice on the other end. "It's been so long we haven't seen each other. I just got into town and I want to see you." She quickly recognized the voice though it was buried deep in her thoughts. She invited him over.
Quicker than lightning they were together in the city that never sleeps. Quicker than thought they embraced each other naked, looked into each other's eyes and began to make love, or something that on some degree approached it.
He touched his lips to her eyes. She did the same to him. And they collapsed into a single rhythm, slow like honey, soft like snow and then a rage of contortions as if swept up in a hurricane. They stopped only after it seemed they'd swallowed all the lights in the city.
The clock struck six. Carrie had three hours to be at an early meeting. Peter began to dress. She never let him sleep over, even on the nights he was only passing through Manhattan on his way home.
She kissed him as he tightened his belt, helped knot his tie and opened the door and motioned him out with the same movement as she shoved him his shoes.
Carrie was alone again. She lit a cigarette in celebration and lay staring at the ceiling, remembering she'd always wanted a brownstone on Central Park.
Peter made lighter tracks in the snow that early morning. His flight would leave early that afternoon and he didn't feel like sleeping. He walked past a newsstand still open and picked up the Times. He realized he hadn't read the business pages in a long time. Then he bought a rose at a corner store. He hated to see them wilt in shop windows under the neon glare.
He wouldn't give it to her. He'd keep it. He never gave her anything. It was just to save the rose from the neon glare and prevent it from wilting on display. It was much better to die sheltered away, protected.
Carrie sighed under the cotton sheets, glanced at the clock to see it was almost seven and become a little more concerned before her single hour of sleep. The relief was she would drink strong black coffee in the morning as rush hour woke up Manhattan.
Caffeine kept Carrie's eyes open during the meeting. She listened just enough to knod in agreement or make disapproving faces at silly suggestions. She hated the business of her business career.
Peter flew over the Atlantic with the rose in his briefcase. Carrie walked back home pushing her way through Wall St. only slowly enough to catch a glimpse of wilted roses in a corner shop window. She hated to see them die under the neon glare, but it was too late now.
The red telephone would sit quietly now, ringing only for business, as if mocking her loneliness. She took off her high heels again and lay exhausted in bed, eyes wide open to see the ceiling paint was beginning to chip. The hum of the heater drove her to a heavy sleep, her face lit by the red neon of the building across the street.
