The whisky made the room golden and friendly. She stopped drinking it before the words tumbled out, straight from where they shouldn’t. She never got to that dangerous stage. The truth was an untouchable, an unknown and a shock. She looked at everything, blurred and unreal, isn’t this all just a facade? Wasn’t the truth that blurry time in the past, that she remembers, but can’t touch? Or will it be her future? Whatever this is, it’s enough to dance in a daze, but not enough to feel. And if she ever really lets go, will it be a disappointment?
No, no, it is hers, saved for when she gets to that golden place buried deep in her clear consciousness and dreams. It may not even be real, but when she gets there she hopes he is there too, and they can spin in the fields of corn. Dancing without a care in the world.
She smiled pleasantly and continued discussing the price of wooden sideboards, cigarettes and how kind her boss is at the firm where she worked as his secretary. She didn’t mention the lunches with the Dr she was in love with, her hopes to leave the city and design her own patterns, clothes and interiors. Nor did she scream out with glee when Marta said she had lost two dress sizes, or when Samuel fell over in his comical way, whisky saved from disaster, his arm held high.
During her walk home through the city alive, she began to walk faster and faster, energised with every skip. Past all the coffee bars and spheres of chat, the singers and the clubs. The alcohol sodden city was more romantic and appealing from afar. Skipping into each bubble she imagined herself next to each & every person with steamy, heightened senses. Safer imagining, because the reality is always too much.