Moving into the apartment in the island arranged for us by a woman that I immediately named Mrs. Omega because each of her facial features resembled the letter O, proved to be interesting. Though repugnant by even the standards of my almost negligent nature, everything came in twos, which in turn made the apartment seem... orderly, even taken care of. The space consisted of two pillows each (it was arranged for us to enjoy these little commodities), two nightstands, two chairs, two TVs (I was told we were lucky we had one at all), two couples of towels each, and all arranged together symmetrically. From far away these twos of everything seemed be just pixels for illustrating a bigger picture, a masterpiece of some sort, that I intended to interpret as depicting life blatantly relieved, untouched from the time to time polluted flow of other lives and free of their baggage. The apartment was inspiringly pitiful. And I was inspired. All it took to have such a life was to submit to the spirit of amative and ineluctable pairing that had contaminated all means of life. After all the tiresome traveling, miserable chairs that vibrated when carrying the slightest weight, doors that squeaked with every movement of the wind, windows threatening to rust, and TVs that no longer helped me make sense of the outside world were more than enough.
Mrs. Omega apologetically explained about the stained walls that the couple living there before us were artists. The end. As if artists are unquestionable and can't be blamed for anything they do. "The gihrl, Ameerican, like yu," she pointed at me, dramatically raising her O shaped eyebrows, an expression she would later continue to do whenever she wanted to provoke a response from my blank face. My fiance asked some questions about them as I wandered around. I had seen Him speak in the islanders' native language enough times to know that all I would do was stare mindlessly until they were done. At best, I could provide a third wheel-ish distraction to the conversation, which in turn would make them talk about me only that I wouldn't know it. The bedroom had a balcony from which I could see the street and the little shops or coffe places. The merging of the horizon with the sky was disturbed by (what seemed in the dusk as) an intrusive black mass. When I asked about it, Mrs. Omega smiled the kind of smile a teacher serves an overly diligent student asking about next month's assignment. No. Now that I think about it, she smiled a protective smile that made me feel like an outsider who is overstepping their boundaries by asking questions they shouldn't ask. Either way, she made her point about my foreignness, and pronounced its name in such a way that convinced me that it was a historical landmark, one of which regional legends are made of. He translated it to me as "Last Breath." Such a dramatic name for just a rock. I told Him this.
(vazhdon...)
Krijoni Kontakt