idle days

J went out for a smoke; it was simply that, a smoke. Nothing more, nothing less. With no interest, he looked across the water and watched the couple looking back at him. The girl looked much too young to be with the man, who definitely looked like someone who legally was not supposed with her. Maybe that man was her dad but judging by the kiss he just gave her, he was probably her daddy rather than her dad. The corrupted youth, J thought with a smirk, they let anyone near them as long as they get an I-pod and some free designer drugs to go with that. He was not cynical. He was realistic. Without having the strength or the interest to finish that thought, he started pacing up and down the short street, faster by every minute. He didn’t know why, and if he did he refused to acknowledge it, but something, something in him (feelings they called it) was not right. He didn’t know what, nor did he care. Caring is creepy, he thought, reciting one of the most beautiful songs ever written and so he resumed his watching of the couple across the water, as he had decided to name them. If he ever saw them again, let’s say at a whorehouse, he would think of them as “the couple across the water”. The sentence sounded beautiful, sounded like something you would call a trendy-looking, beautiful couple in tuxedo and a Chanel dress from Paris. Yet there was no beauty here, nothing beautiful about this couple whatsoever; her lolita-looks what with the red lipstick and the ponytails and the sucking of the lollipop and his big belly and small, squinty eyes and sweaty forehead. And they were most definitely not a couple from Paris. The wrong side of the tracks, more likely.

All the rage. Suddenly it was just there, without even knocking on the door to his mind first. The whore, J thought, what a whore she is that girl, what a fucking whore. He despised her; she was using this guy, using him to get what she wanted. Born on the wrong side of the tracks (for some reason he guessed Riverside rather than Chino), she probably gave anyone a blow-job as long as they promised her cigarettes. Been there, done that, J thought and gave yet another half-hearted smirk. He tried to focus on something other than the couple across the water. He turned around and faced the building in front of him. Big, faded grey colour, a big door with a lock that really had seen better days. If burglars wanted an easy break-in, this was it. Sometimes he toyed with the idea of breaking in himself. Just to steal back the pens that his working colleagues always borrowed from him but never returned. And to check whether is was true that Josh made more money than he did. And if that in fact was true, then J wouldn’t just steal the pens. He would take back that stapler Josh took back from him two years ago after J had had it for three years. That was just mean, J thought and once again, he started watching the couple, transfixed for this time they kissed for what seemed like a life-time. They separated their lips, their smiling lips J noticed, and started getting ready to leave.

J looked.
And he looked.
He looked.
And he saw clearly; his mind could no longer pretend. He was not capable of not seeing anymore. It was them. The girl. And the man.
His girl. And that man she left him for.
As the couple started walking away, Emily turned around and waved.
The whore, J thought,
what a whore she is that girl,
what a fucking whore.

- Julia Melin, 2008