I had not yet drunk a coffee. The smell was appetising, but I could not appreciate the taste enough to drink a cup. My taste buds where used to hot chocolate and fantasy.
As you know Turkish coffee is made in specially formed volcano shaped little pots. That's how all the women made it. How my grandmother drunk it each moring of summer, at dawn long before i was up.
He on the other hand took a big old metal soup casarrole and brewed a liter of the brown stuff. I seemed not to be used to many flavours here considered normal,so having wriggled my way out of well intended offers of food, out of politeness I accepted a cup. It was delicious. Very sweet. Transparent. And seeing that the house was full of his friends it disappeared within an instant. I did not know how to make another. Perhaps I disappointed. When he was hungry I bought him what I considered best, several chocolates, yet here men eat, bread and meat. He brewed for me a second coffee.
All the girls whispered in groups when he's car drove up near . When he would get out of it their chests automatically would be propped up vertically. He was their very own James Dean. Art student.Film maker.Musician. Knew everything there was to know and fix on cars. Experimenting often a over the edge of what was considered proper. With a male possy always following a laughing. His eyes where brown green. His style copied. And behind fat soft lips, he had teeth like a werewolf, sharp, too many of them, maybe even a double row, his mouth was that of an animal, and very sexy.
I believe in god. Ah. Save me. Why I am I in this car right now. I was most probably going to die. So stupid. Why I? Sitting in the front seat, with the driver's body out of the car, all star shoes on the seat, driving on the wrong side of the road as fast as the car would go, with cars following behind and coming at us from the opposite side of the road, just as fast, playing chicken, seeing who would get away first. The fright is real even now. Of course I survived. Panting. Heart beating for ages after from the thrill. I did not know that it was a show, put on specially for me.
My first kiss was needles to say, administered by him. It was night, we where alone, lights where low, his parents where gone, and the kiss was so much better than I had expected. So warm. So lush. Enchanting. More is what I wanted immediately. His eyes bore at me widely, and those animal teeth half smiled half threatened, asking permission, his breath rushing and sweet, body pressing close to me.
I am not ready, I whispered retuning his stare.
Drive me home please.
No there was nothing wrong. Its just I was fifteen, and wanted my long drawn out safe fantasy, and until than I was going to keep with chastity.
In style of grease the movie, that was the idyllic school holiday romance, and my first. At night after midnight when grandparents would go to bed, I would throw the hover electric line over the second floor balcony fence, grab it like a climber, land on to the neighbours car, steal into the night ,just to see him, listen to him play guitar on the beach under the stars. But too soon it was over. He was a little older. Needed a girl who would go further. And I returned to school after summer changed, infatuated, broken hearted, mocking all other boys who tired to court me.
That is how summer number one ended. We had three summers. Or 3x 2 weeks of summer. Every few years we seemed to meet right at the end of August. They where always significant. The second summer. He was shooting a film. I made him blue wings. Visited his new life in the capital. Wrote him a cook book with my grandmas' recipes and pretty much wanted to move countries for him. And than once again in the Automn, got back over the ocean to university broken hearted.
Third summer was half a decade ago. Our lives where considerably more grown up. He started to chase me with the loved up eyes I must have had before. We worked on an art project together and never finished it. He suddenly wanted something deeper, but, I did not let him kiss me in the full moon light, it was than all too late,and as ever end of summer ,I left the country .
Last few weeks all of a sudden I dream him at night. We have not spoken more then a hellow for years. I dream an alternative history warped at my age of 20. He is always smiling, looking cool as ever, working on his projects, the details are very lucid, his tooth-full smile, his mother's face. I don't 'know where the dreams come from. Weather they are projected my by subconscious, projected to me by his mothers telepathy, or is he haunting me.
A couple of weeks ago, around Easter, he jumped of a building. So I was told.
Hard to believe.
Than his mother for the first time started corresponding with me. Perhaps to keep him alive. By writing to his friends. Waking up memories.
The dreams keep on coming. He is very real in them, physical. I felt I had to write this to release him. To say good bye. To put these words and memories into the ether where somehow he will find out he was appreciated. Perhaps that's how it works. All the people he knew well must do it. Let him go ritually. One day of tears was not enough. Ignoring it doesn't seem to work. So here goes. I have lit a candle. And have written this post card to add to his travel baggage. Now I ought to say go. You where loved. Go where ever ghosts go. Go into the sun. Or go be re incarnated.
No comments:
Post a Comment