Can't deal with reality.

So, here's some fiction for you:

Inhale

She took a ringlet of her curly hair and inhaled deeply. The smell of her conditioner had never been so divine.

***

That was one of those splendid Soho drinking night out. When conversations about art, philosophy and European cinema simply flow without any effort of keeping them alive. The time for all those beautiful, wise and precise words to come out one’s mouth encouraged by loads of alcohol and proper company.

She called a photographer from that morning’s shoot. Of course, after some wine and some argument with some painter, who was supposed to make her charms eternal.

 It wasn’t really her, in fact it was her sub consciousness calling.

Events of that morning haven’t formed itself into memories yet. They were more like impressions all over her body. His sight, even through camera lens, left its marks on her. Not that typical flat, uncomfortable unfulfilled desire stains, so easy to wash off with a shower cream during a long, evening bath. These were more like tunnels connecting his eyes with her soul. And she had no intention of getting rid of them. Exploring them, on the other hand, seemed far more interesting.

She was seen drinking rose in company of the photographer and his close friend, a great persona in the art world. And levitating into a cab with both of them.

***

He was no longer there. Was he ever there? She smelled her hair again. She hardly remembered, what happened after they got to hers, but it wasn’t for her brain to remember that. Her body did. Partly. She could easily recall taking a bath together and a wild stream of associations started by him washing her hair. “Out of Africa”, Robert Redford and Meryl Streep, great love stories, truth and licentia poetica. She inhaled again. Couldn’t help it. She needed to make sure again, that the bath and almost spiritual lovemaking of her life really took place. She smiled calmly and went back to sleep.

***

She was in love. Smiles without a reason and appreciation of every short moment, when sunshine appeared in cloudy city’s sky. After realizing that strong feelings rarely work both ways she completely excluded the other side from her state of mind. She found that solution a while ago so she had enough time to get used to not it.

A text from him surprised her. She agreed on a coffee somewhere central.

She didn’t want to admit how terrified she was. Of spoiling the image of her beloved with reality, of one imperfect word that could overweight the pieces of last night’s magnificent conversation. In a way she even felt disgusted with a real person she was about to meet.

She smoked her morning cigarette and painted her lips red. Got out and took the tube.

***

She was seen in the place of the accident. First pale and completely motionless. Then, when the signal of the ambulance made it all real, bursting into tears. Had never looked that ugly in her whole life. Mascara washed off from her lashed formed two black streams running down her cheeks, the remains of the red lipstick covered her teeth.

Crashed bike laid in the middle of the street, left behind by his unconscious owner taken to the hospital. The deep coma, he was in, appeared to be an extremely possessive mistress. She had no intention to let him go from her arms any time soon.

***

Frist there was only guilt, then overwhelming sadness. Such a strong sadness that it kept her between the sheets for weeks. She felt connected with him, simply watching the days of her youth passing by without any participation in them.

***

She was seen in a library taking “Out of Africa” for a little walk. And by his bed reading it out loud. With the first pages of the novel filling hospital’s air their true relationship began. It was perfect in a way. She could shape it as she wished, give the exact amount of attention she decided, let her emotions flow in the direction she told them to. But she gave it all. She brought him fresh flowers every time, spent hours reading or just holding his hand. Months went by and her life became as motionless as his body. First that peace had been comforting, she let it affect her social life and career. She was too committed to meet anyone else, not to mention dating. But the perfect harmony between her memories, dreams and imaginary feelings for him became boring her after a while. And she realized there was no way out. Every time she thought about breaking up with that almost corpse, not even breathing on his own, guilt covered her mind again. Wasn’t it the way she wanted him to be? Present, but unable to be any worse version of himself that she created? She realized, that her perception of his person from the only night they’ve spent together was a 

fundament of months taken out from her life. The most poetic ones.

***

One day, she entered the room as always with a bouquet in her hand and a book in her bag. She saw his friend from that night out sitting by the bed. She placed the flowers on the table and sat silently on the other side of the bed.

-So you’re the one bringing flowers.

She remained silent.

-I don’t understand…

-He was on a way to meet me. See what happens to a guy who won’t consider me a one night stand?

She smiled to him.

-One night stand?

- Well, after that evening out we got to mine and…

He looked at her in a strange way and kept staring for a while.

-And you’ve been coming here because of that night?

-It seems to be enough for some people. At least for me.

-But nothing happened between you two.

-What do you mean?

-That night you got so wasted that you couldn’t open the door. He helped you with the keys, then got back in the cab. We went to mine and had another bottle of wine.

***

There was no more flowers or love stories read out loud. She threw her imagination back to the cage, where it belongs and kept it locked. And finally changed the brand of her conditioner.