So, tell me how long
before the last one?
And tell me how long
before the right one?
I'm finally home again with aching feet and a bursting heart. My New Year's eve started at the house of one of those families that have portrait paintings of long gone relatives on their walls. It ended with me leaving all too visible traces of mascara on a stranger's pillow.
Around midnight I found myself sitting alone in a dark brown Chesterfield sofa when a boy came up and offered me a drink. He was tall and skinny with dark eyes, soft hair and a striped shirt. He talked to me in a way I've only been dreaming of for the longest time, but how can I possibly trust anyone in a city so full of fakes? I took his number but didn't give him mine.
Mother called a little bit later but I ignored her, I never know if she calls me when she's feeling guilty or when she's not. The boy asked me "aren't you going to answer that?" I told him a little bit about my mother, he was quiet for a few seconds and then said "be careful what you wish for".
Today, my clothes smell vaguely of gunpowder and Acqua di Giò. It's all starting over now.