"I was lost in the pages, 
 of a book, full of death
 reading I will die alone"


"What if there was no tomorrow?" she asked. Mumbling the words, seeping through her lips in a soft whisper. "Would you still be here with me?"
"I don't know...if there was no tomorrow, I'd like to take a shot at getting Susan Sarandon"... she hits me on the shoulder and rolls over on the bed, faking a pout while I laugh.
The rain pouring down outside, hits her window-sill garden and lets in that sweet smell of wet earth. 
"I love this smell" she says, her back to me, not turning around. "Everytime I smell it, I think of us...here..."


...


I wake up from my day-dream, Ray is sitting right in front of me, smiling...
"Were you dreaming of her?" he asks, noticing a faint peaceful expression on me...
"Yeah...she's been coming to me a lot lately..." I say, painlfully getting up from the couch and dragging myself to the kitchen,. "Would you like a beer?"
"Nah, I can't have any more of those Dean, you know that...don't tease me..." 
"Fine, fine, more for me then..." I say, brining two bottles with me to the table, opening the first one as I sit down and chugging half of it in one sip. 
"You know...drinking like that is gonna get you killed" Ray says. We both look at each other for a second and start laughing.
"Can't a man enjoy a final drink?" I ask.
Ray looks ate me, saddened and finally asks: "Why did you do it?"
I look down at the table, sliding my finger through the water ring left by the bottle standing on the hardenned wood top. Then back at Ray...
"I had to...they were gonna hurt her. Even you know I couldn't let that happen." 
He smiles, disappointed...his anger gets the best of him as he gets up, screaming at me.
"You KNEW this wasn't going to end well..you had your gun here at home, you should have asked for help, you should have waited for backup...Why the FUCK did you go in alone?" His fist hits the table, as he starts crying... "You dumb old fuck..."
I don't stop him, I know he's right. I retrace my steps that day, wondering what else could I have done to save the girl and leave, unscratched...there's a silent, morbid relief in me when I can't think of a way to do so...


...


They were three. Two of them were holding her already beaten body down, the third one was unzipping his pants. There was a desperate contempt in her face, no fight left in her. She was laying there, peacefully, like a hanged man who has accepted his fate seconds before the fall. Noone in their right mind would have stopped at the sight of three hooded men holding down a bloody woman...most people would have just kept going, as I'm sure some of them did...sadly, not me.
"I'm gonna give you five seconds to drop her off and start running." I said, boldly, while wishing they'd just leave, even though I knew they wouldn't. One of them looks at the other two and starts laughing, coming at me with a coy smile in his face.
"Are you talking to us grandpa?" He asked, opening his arms as if he's challenging me, lifting up his shirt afterwards to let me see the Glock 17 he was keeping  near his crotch. "I think you were just leaving..:"
"You're right...I was. I'm sorry to have bothered you." I saw the dim light of hope in the girls eyes, that lit up once she saw me, fade away as I fake my leave. I couldn't let these pricks win...as I turn around, my hand in my pocket searches for the loose change I knew I had from the grocery store. "Just an advice son..." I say to the one near me who was already turning away mindless words to get his attention. He turns back, allowing me an easier access to his gun as I throw the coins in his face.
It happens in the split of a second. The grab. A skill we trained over and over in the academy, studying every possible movement outcome the enemy could do, and the steps we might have to take to reach a holstered gun in a belt. He jumps back, I jump forward, reaching the gun with my right hand and his nose with my left fist. As I pick up the weapon, a quick shot to his left leg lets the others know I couldnt be more serious and makes the kid fall to his knees, allowing me to rotate him to his friends with the gun pointed to his head. 
Surpsrisingly, the two scared kids reach out for their coats, even though their friend's life was in jeopardy. These weren't runners, they were fighters. This wasn't my lucky day...I was fast...but even I couldn't be that fast. Two shots in the first kid's chest leave him out of the fight and then time slows down as I see the other one had a .357 Magnum in his hand...and not even his friend's body can protect me from those... I turn my gun to him and we both fire two shots each...mine, fatal, to his head...his, piercing his friend's body, hit me in the stomach...


There was a smile in that crying girl's face I haven't seen in a long time. As if someone had pull her from the darkness of a traumatized life, back into her mundane and now beautiful existence.
"Thank you sir, thank you so much!" I noticed she didn't see the wounds on me, as I covered them promptly with my coat...she hugged me and it felt like a thousand knives being staked into me at once. I didn't want to alarm her and I had seen too much to know why they called these wounds the "slow death". There's nothing to be done...I had at most...an hour...if I didn't move much...
"That's okay...I'm glad you're okay...I have to go now, but I'm glad you're okay."
"Thank you so much...if it weren't for you I'd be...wait...I need to know your name, you saved my life..." I wish I could stay and chat, but if I wanted this to be a good memory for both of us, I couldn't show any weakness....and I needed to leave that place soon...
"Dean...my name's Dean...I'm just happy I could help...but I really have to go now..."
"Thank you Dean..." she mumbled again, at a loss for words. Her eyes, watering up once more told me all I needed to know...she was going to be okay...
The walk home was the most painful five mnutes of my life...hanging on to my coat to cover the blood soaked shirt, moving at a steady pace, trying to keep my body as still as possible...
As soon as I sit on my couch, I drift in and out of conscience, dreaming of her...
Looking back at it, a shameless smile pops into my lips. I was happy I saved her...I guess I couldn't have asked for a better ending...


...


"You and I both know Ray, there's not much left for me to live for..." I finally say. He looks at me, calms down and smiles, saddened by the cold harsh truth...
"You can live for yourself...."
"I've never been good at taking care of myself....and you know it. I've got two bullets in me to prove it..." I say, laughing lightly as I cough. The cough gets worst and the taste of blood feels up my mouth....it's getting close...
"I'm coming Ray.." I say, Ray looks at me and forces a smile.
"I know Dean...I'll be waiting..." he says, before vanishing up in before my eyes...my imagination had played its last card on me...Ray has been dead for 5 years now, yet I'm glad my almost completely wasted mind found a way to keep me entertained in my last hour...
 I look at the table and there's this old photo looking back at me...me and Veronica, back in '88...we are staring into each other's eyes and smiling like two dumb kids in love...I pick up the frame and smile...
"Guess we'll all be together soon...." 
My vision blurs, my mind numbs down and  the pain gets worse, as I feel myself getting colder and more and more tired...I don't fight it. I rest my head in my crossed up arms on the table and close my eyes...


It starts to rain outside...the soft, light drops will hit my window sill garden soon, leaving that sweet wet earth smell on my flat...today is a good day to die...

"So take it easy on me, 
 I'm afraid you're never satisfied"


"Prince charming doesn't exist..." I tell her, as she's leaving...she stops, frozen, without looking back...attentively listening yet letting me know she has no intention in staying... "prince charming doesn't exist..." I continue "remember that fourth date? You told me you were looking for your prince...I told you I knew I didn't look a thing like jesus but I talked like a gentleman..." I smile as I remmeber it, for a second or two... "I now know I will never match up to those fairy tale ideals of yours. I will fall short. But I will keep getting up...and I know you don't wanna hear this but...you're normal, too. You have flaws. I can't cite them because everytime I look at you, I see that gorgeous, perfect girl I fell for, not the flawed regular version I will remember if you leave...to make me feel better in losing you. I don't want to see her..."
I walk up to her and place my hand on her shoulder.
"And I really don't want you to see me as the "guy who you once thought was great..."
There's this momment of silence between us. It feels like years passing by, those split seconds.
"You know that's not something very...."principy" to say, right?" she finally answers.
"I know. But it's working isn't it?" she turns her head slightly back and smiles "Disney's got nothing on me when it comes to talking..." I playfully brag.
"You did okay...if you wrote half as good as you talk, you might actually be a decent writer..." she mocks...
She places her hand on mine, still not turning her body back and walks away slowly...
"I'll see you tomorrow Aladdin..."
"Technically, Aladdin was a sultan...." I mock back.
"Don't push it..."

"Without her, it's not the same
 The same, the same, but it's alright" 

"You've been sitting here for four hours now...staring at the door with a drink in your hand...what troubles you, son?" asked Joe, the bartender. He looked like a typical 50's movie bartender: fat, jolly, always with a wise word at the tip of his tongue.

"Well Joe...my life just crumbled tonight and your bar was the demolition site..." I replied, reminded once more why I sat alone.

"Well, apologies for it. Had I known my bar would be such a dramatic place, I would have cleaned it up better today." he said, with a mocking yet gentle smile... "People sitting at that side of the counter, tend to dramatize their lives to a point of meaningless despair...so tell me...what troubles you?"

"Well Joe, here it is..."

..................

I was 26 back then, finding my own path while I wrote as a columnist for two of the town's newspapers when I met her.

A black-haired waitress, working at "Little Henry's", a small Italian restaurant at the corner of 37th Ave and Balboa Street...I have always been one to aim high, no waitresses, or people with meaningless jobs. You could say I was a prick, in that department. Little did I know by then, this was the highest I had ever aimed...

"What...no tip?" she asked once, after my first meal in the diner. Not offended, but pouting, in a childish manner, as I offered the exact change.

"I don't believe in tips. Food is already overpriced." I answered, my words sour, I was having a bad week. 

"Well, I'll give you one then: Speckels Park. By John F. Kennedy Street, there's a spot near the Lake where no one bothers you, the sounds get muffled by the trees around. I do most of my thinking there. You seem to be needing some..." 

"Never tried it...maybe I'll give it a go, seeing as I'm running out of options." I blankly say, just as I'm about to leave.

I've had no good stories in the past two months. The editors were angry, with good reason. They said I "lacked commitment"...I judged otherwise...I lacked inspiration. 

That place revived me. 

The soothing water sounds, the city-noise free area, it was a secluded forest amidst a crowded town, my very own Shangri-La where I could hear myself think, see myself write, and nothing else mattered. My stories soared through my imagination, picking up the best of me before landing themselves on paper.

Then one lonely afternoon I heard her voice echoing through the muffled silence "I see you found it!" It was her. Weeks after my visit to her restaurant. I must admit I felt bad for never returning. I was lost in my work and she was the reason why...

"I told you it was a good place."

I looked back and smiled, embarrassed. "Yes...it has really helped me. My work is flowing again, thanks to you..." 

She smiled and sat down next to me, nudging her shoulder against mine as if we were old friends. "You're welcome. So...what do you do?"

That's all it took. A nudge and a question to make us spend hours talking. She was a  part-time waitress,  finishing up her law degree. Her parents were back in Ohio, where she was born and raised. Moved here for some ex-boyfriend and fell in love with the city. Her passions were reading and drawing. She was quite the sketch artist and she loved what I had written...two points in her favor. Then there was her hair. Black as the night, curly tips, flowing back and forth as she talked, hypnotizing me to the point of no return. Her pet peeves were dogs. Bad experience as a child left her with an uncontrollable fear of them, which to me meant calling every single one I saw when I was with her, just to playfully piss her off.

"You know this one could fit in your key chain, right?" I'd say, to a half-hidden girl, peeking from behind a tree at a leashless chihuahua that was standing there, looking at me, confused.

"Make him go away!" she replied, no harm intended as her intonation made clear. 

Weeks go by, first dates long gone, first kisses exchanged in that same faded place we met. San Francisco was mostly sunny so I made most of my writing underneath that oak tree by the lake where I first sat down and waited for inspiration to strike me. She would meet me there in between shifts, after classes, we barely needed a phonecall as she usually knew where to find me.

Days were too short for all our talking. Months went by and she and I were too good to be true. And like every perfect story in every shitty romance movie, a misfortune was needed, to spice things up. 

One day, she sat restlessly by the oak tree at my side and exhaled loudly, as if burdened by the thought of words to come. 

"What is it?" I asked, as I put down my laptop and looked at her.

"It's him...he wants me back." ...

She was always a "straight sayer" as I called her, no need for futile conversations, straight to the point in important matters. The words echoed in my head with a bang...shattering the perfect dream I had unconsciously created of a future spent together.

"Well...I want you still, so we're in a bit of a jam here." I replied, faking a smile and a joyful tone.

She had never talked about him to me until that day: their seven year relationship, being childhood friends, the shit perfect love tales are made of. Every sentence made me more and more realize I was the villain in that story...

After talk settled and stories shared, I posed the million-dollar question: "What are you going to do about this?"

......................

"And that's what brings me to this bar, where we once shared our first drink, at 4 a.m, talking to you Joe. She was to make her choice by midnight today...either leave with him, or meet me here. Guess her choice was clear."

"Well, you win some and lose some Dean..." he replied, words shared, I bet, with a thousand customers. 

"That's your advice after all this? Is that supposed to ease my pain?" I ask, offended by the little thought he put into his reply.

"No. Pain is numbed by what you've been drinking. I've worked here forty years now, kid. Countless books could be written on stories similar to yours, customers have told and retold of their own lives. We all got our crosses to bear. I know to you, yours seems the heaviest, yet one day you'll see this story is but a water drop, staining very few strokes on your life's canvas."

A second of silence fell upon us, as I wrestled inside between the idea of such an important year of my life, meaning so little...not only when compared to others, but also when compared to what I still had to live. I remembered my mother saying "One day, you'll look back at this moment and laugh". 

"Maybe one day I'll share a drink with my future wife here Joe, and our story will blow your mind..." I said as I raised my glass, finishing up my drink.

He raised his glass, scotch, neat, and drank it whole, as he smiled. "I'll be here, waiting for that moment."

As I was about to leave, Joe shouted at the door, calling me by my name "Dean...this is a twenty-dollar tip...I thought you didn't believe in overpaying..."

"I don't. And I didn't. Your company makes your drinks underpriced." 

He laughed at the unusual compliment. Sharing one last cliché'd "Come back soon, kid" as the door shut and the lights went off. 
5 a.m had come and gone and the sun was starting to paint the town red. I moved up to Fort Baker's pier and lit up my very first cigarette. The pack was nearly empty but the moment felt incipient enough to call it that. One hour and 5 smokes later, I mustered up a faint smile to myself. It wasn't yet a laugh but I was on my way. 

"Tocas-me no rosto enquanto o ar não sai

 Inspiro sem medo do acto que vem"

As horas vão passando, a cidade adormece, devagar, numa pachorrenta tarde de domingo. As luzes lá fora acendem-se, os carros vão deixando de passar e as vozes nítidas de conversas soltas que ecoam até à minha janela já não me visitam. O véu negro cai sobre a agitação de uma tarde primaveril, perfurado apenas pela luz das estrelas que teimam em brilhar por entre nuvens passageiras.

O filme acaba e nós não nos apercebemos, perdidos em histórias de infância, sonhos e aspirações pessoais, deixamo-nos levar pelo prazer de conversar. Trocam-se risos, segredos e olhares não tão inocentes, que me levam a uma pergunta  para a qual já sei a resposta: queres vir fumar um cigarro ao terraço?

Abro a porta e deixo-te passar, olhando de relance para o teu corpo, elegante. Move-se numa ligeireza sensual enquanto o teu perfume se arrasta, um pouco atrás, intenso e cativante.

Subimos e deixas escapar um ar surpreso ao veres a vista sobre a cidade, comentando na sorte que tenho em poder aqui vir todos os dias. Na verdade, podíamos ter fumado em casa, mas conheço o efeito inebriante que uma vista como esta pode ter.

Uma brisa mais fresca sopra na altura certa. Já de cigarro aceso, puxas contra ti o casaco bege de malha que tens vestido, abraçando-te com força numa expressão friorenta. Aproximo-te por trás, encostando o meu peito às tuas costas e cubro os teus braços com os meus.

Perdemo-nos por minutos, a contar janelas e a identificar edifícios icónicos da cidade, iluminados pelas luzes citadinas que tremeluzem à distância. A noite consegue dar um ar misterioso e sedutor ao mais banal dos edifícios. A pintura grená, suja de um paralelipípedo gigante e inestético ganha nuances alaranjadas e vermelhas que se pintam com o reflexo de uma luz.

Passam-se mais uns minutos, acende-se mais um cigarro e fala-se dos sítios que nos marcaram na cidade: onde brincávamos em pequenos, onde adormeci, bêbado, na estação de comboio, onde roubaste uma vez uma laranja, no mercado junto às docas. Viro-te para mim, desembaraço o teu cabelo louro, solto, para trás da orelha e digo em tom sussurrado "...e neste terraço, foi onde te beijei pela primeira vez..." puxando-te para mim, sorris e beijamo-nos.

Afastas-te, sorriso nos lábios, olhas para o céu e de volta para mim, mordes o lábio inferior e sussurras "é isto a que tu chamas ver um filmezinho em tua casa?".

Puxo-te para mim e perdemo-nos um no outro no terraço. Enquanto a cidade adormece, os carros deixam de passar e as pessoas já não falam, o silêncio ensurdecedor da noite é superado pela música de mais um beijo, um gemido, um suspiro...seguido da melodia muda de uma noite bem passada.

"to a place, i recall, i was there so long ago...
 the sky was bruised, the wine was bled,
 and there you led me on..."


the faded voices wake me up. 
i've always liked this sound. people talking, moving, living. i always liked crowded places, ever since i was a kid. they make me feel safe...as i slowly open my eyes, the blinding white lights blur my vision. all i see is black silhouetes, moving on a white canvas.
why does my body ache? i lift up my arm, there's still blood dripping from it and a red paper bracelet with the words "urgent care" on my wrist lets me know this isn't such a safe situation i'm in.
"he's waking up!" i hear. that nostalgic, childish voice echoes in my head and brings a smile to my lips, it's her... i turn my head and our eyes meet. hers were crying, mine were just happy to see her. i know i love her but...i can't seem to remember her.
"hey you..." i say, in an almost muted voice...
"he woke up again!" i hear Alex say...what does he mean again? he slowly walks up to me with a patronizing smile on his face. "hey sleeping beauty, feeling better?"
i try to sit up but they both stop me, pushing my body towards the stretcher. even though it was soft, my back landing against the mattress makes my whole body shiver in pain. 
"what the hell happened?" i ask, confused. 
"not this again..." Alex says, as he rolls his eyes and leaves the room, frustrated by what i just asked.
it's only me and her now. she holds my hand and slowly explains it. "you were in a car crash...you're okay. noone got hurt"
"no, no, no...this makes no sense...i was back at college yesterday, it's...what day is it?"
she sighs and draws a sad smile. i can see this is hard for her..."it's september, september 3rd...and you're gonna ask me how is this possible, since you distinctively remember it's march..." she says, as she looks away and her eyes water up again.
i've never been so confused in all my life...
"well...if my memory is the problem then we should start working on it. I should start to write everything so I don't..." her sad smile, once again, shuts me up. she points towards the garbage can near the entrance. judging by the ammount of shredded paper in it, i can see i already had this idea...
"the doctor says it's better if you rest...your memory will come...eventually."
she kisses me and i feel at home. for once during these minutes i feel at peace. 
"i'm glad you're here" i say...still not remembering her name...she smiles openly. the first happy smile i've seen from her today.
"i know you are. it's the fifth time you tell me that."

what the hell is wrong with me...

"Boy, one day you'll be a man...


Oh Girl, he'll help you understand."




The sound of my own thoughts, roaming around in my head, keeps me awake. I can't rest. I hate it when we fight. I get up, half asleep, my hand against the wall to guide me while my eyes are still drinking in the darkness, sip by sip, adjusting to an almost pitch black house, illuminated only by the red and green dots of light the electric appliances emit.
I make my way to the kitchen for a glass of water, even though thirst is just an excuse my body makes up to try and justify my lack of sleep.
As I slowly move back to bed, I notice something out of the ordinary: the building lights are turned on outside, yet the ray of light that comes in through the bottom of my door isn't regular. It stops halfway through and continues a short while after...there's something in there.
Curiosity speeds up my walk as I reach down for what appears to be an envelope someone stuck beneath the door. No address, no name.
I open it up and immediately recognize the writing. It's him.


"We're not always gonna be sunshine and butterflies.


I think being with me tends to have the same fucked up effect as a night of alcoholic binge.
It starts off sweet, that first taste, that satisfying thirst for something "out of ordinary", mixed in with a lemon and a soda, the liquid equivalents of my early-night ramblings about how beautiful you are.

Next thing you know you've had a couple of those, you've spent time with me. We're happy. Cruising along, sex on the beach. Those neverending talks, those notes at the foot of your bed telling you you're the reason I wake up every morning, promptly complaining afterwards about what shitty job I might have at that time...and how hard the writing is for me. We love it. That edge, the rush of not knowing what we are, what we're going to be, the struggle between the relationship and the fling, the potential of what we can accomplish paints itself before our eyes and you see me as a politically correct, "always fucking ready to whatever the world throws at me" guy. The man you're dreaming of is masking what I really am, but it doesn't matter right now - much like that fifth Martini masks off the unpleasantness of a forgettable night - right now we're both your best friends.

But you don't stop. We don't stop. We keep going. Drinking from the bottle now, out of control. We're explosions in the sky, high tides in the sea, hurricanes in the jungle. We're not happy - we're ecstatic, flying along as you carelessly take another sip, dancing the night away at the club, smiling at your friends, laughing at every little shit that seems remotely fun. You're a child at Christmas morning, you're excited, horny, sexy, nothing can stop you now. And you don't. Take another sip and we're moving into some shitty town together. We're fucking everywhere, lost in lust, passion, hopes, dreams of what both of us can accomplish. We're not like them, we're us! We're the perfect couple.

One last sip and the bottle falls down, it shatters on the ground...you look at it and, for a split second, you doubt yourself...the curtain closes and you see us for what we are. We're not that different, everyone isn't looking at us and your friends aren't laughing anymore, they're dazing off, drunk, going with the flow of a song they no longer try to playback or even follow its beat. I'm naked. The paint washes off, no more masks. You're thinking "should I stop?". You don't.
One last drink.

We're that blackout sensation. That blind rage when we fight and get on each other's nerves while we scream out loud...
This is it. We're over, you're over, falling to the ground, losing your senses while your friends try and help you up...and I slam the door and go for a walk.


Ah, the morning after...that afterglow, once all the lights are turned off, it's just you and your messy hair covered in bits and pieces of food you had last night. That smell...reality comes striking back. You spend the day in bed, slowly recovering what's left of you, trying to remember how you got back home while you flick the remote looking for some mildly interesting show that will make you forget you can barely stand up.


I let myself in, the house is a mess...I can see you went out after our fight. Walking over to our room I glance at the path of destruction your uncoordinated drunken self left: the keys on the floor, the entrance light shattered against the wall, the towels covering up your first hurl, the half-filled bucket by your bedside...
I lie down next to you and tell you you're still the reason I get out off bed every morning. With you, the writing is not so hard.
Suddenly, you don't feel so bad. We're okay.
Because even though I might be sour sometimes...I'll be there the morning after."




Picking up the phone, as I finish reading it, a childish smile on my lips, I call him. It rings once, twice, then a sleepy, mumbling voice picks up.
"Hello?"
"You know, someone once told me you could judge how much someone likes you by how fast they pick up their phone when you call..."
He laughs lightly. His bed springs clatter as he rolls over in it, replying "Well, he seems like a very wise man..."
"You're an idiot."
"Ah thank you. I can never sleep at peace until someone wakes me up at...holy shit 5 a.m....and tells me I'm an idiot...will that be all? Or do you want to call me a jerk as well and avoid the afternoon call?"
"Shut up...I'm sorry. About everything, I was a bitch to you..."
"Don't worry about it. We all have our moments. I assume you read my letter."
"Yes..."
"Am I good or what?"
"You're okay..."
I can feel him smiling on the other side.
"You're not that bad either..you're an "okay plus"."
"Go to sleep, amateur writer."
"Not without a second "idiot" remark. The second one really hits the spot."
"Sleep, you idiot."
"I'll stop by tomorrow."