When Drunk, I Don't Care How I Look

And there goes Chekhov. Interesting, his short stories. A heck of a lot funnier than The Cherry Orchard (was that supposed to be a comedy? It was included in our readings for Theory and Practice of Comedy anyway).

So, feeling the need for fresh air, I took myself off on a walk, my face loose and vacant, my jaw hanging slightly open, when I bumped into someone I'd known from a long time ago. OK, not so long ago. Maybe two years.

I was brought up short and abruptly because we did not part on the best of terms. Actually there was no final scene, I just withdrew, the way I usually do when someone has been proved to be a liar beyond the shadow of a doubt.

There was no use is extending the misery by allowing him to "explain" or seeing him turn away coldly, not bothering to. So I left. And stayed away. And when I came back, it was all over, no more calls, no more...well, whatever.

And here he was, in front of me, as big as life. You know the funny thing my darling? The funny thing is that I was busy thinking I should be feeling way more than this. This big fat empty NOTHING.

But one of the very few good things you've done is to erase his face. I looked and looked and tried to see now what I saw then. But I couldn't. He was as thin as paper, as transparent as fog, and just as wet. We saw each other, we knew we saw each other, and we walked on, going about our ways without much concern. Maybe I'll turn into an anecdote to one of his female admirers. I can't bring myself to feel sorry for them because they keep on keeping on, knowing what he is. He will tell them how I've shrunk and shrivelled into this old version of me. Maybe they will laugh together talking about it, before they plant one pair of lips on another, for one big wet sloppy kiss. Her soft and unresisting, him redolent with cigarette smoke and a really really foul body odour.

I am vaguely aware of what I look like now. Not that it bothers me much when I don't think of you. But when I do, I sigh, sit down and cover my face. All the money in the world won't change this face. It may make me a little more presentable. But not enough. Never enough for you.

When I'm with you I wish I was beautiful. Beautiful enough for you to see me. But one good thing about this face is that it allows me to fade. Fade into the background. You don't see me. But nobody else does either.

So I read my books and mark my time and write this letter to you that you'll never read.

Maybe now I'll move on to Didion. But I also have Calvino. And Joseph Heller.

Decisions, decisions.