14. April 2011

Und aus der Kategorie Prätentiös Poetisch: Wood

"It's that crazy! I've lost my key, again!"
Joanna cried and kicked angrily at her bike. It was last week, she lost the key to her bike, had to break her own lock, looking like a thief. Why was this happening now, while she was walking around in the rain on the other side of the town. It had to be there! What was she doing here anyway? She already had known, that it is absolutley meaningless to talk to him; it would be the same everytime they were together! He didn't change at all. Her brain did understand, but her heart stucked in some way.
What was this? She found something in the inside pocket of her bag.
It felt so soft and so natural on the one hand, on the other so rough and tough. Was it some kind of wood? How was it put into her bag?
"Oh!", she laughed as she recognized that it was one of the expensive cigarillos she stole with Peter last summer from her father's house. They walked a long way from home then, to find the right place at the river to sit down, smoke and talk about utopic things.
But summer was gone now, the river was nearly frozen, since November came with its cold and hard spirit, which carries all your hopes and wishes for the future in the backyard of your life.
But it's always good to smoke when you're feeling like shit. Her hands were so cold, when she took out the lighter and lighted the last cigarillo. She leaned against the wall of her ex-boyfriend's house. Wasn't that ironic? It was no option to go into the house again. She had to go home by train and come back tomorrow to brake the brand new lock again. FUCK!
Imagining herself in summer, smoking with Peter, it was hard for her not to think of the photos he had taken of her. Her full face, her profile, a view of her hand, holding the cigarillo. Wearing a white top. He always liked her dressed in white. And her chain of white pearls, which was from her grandmother. He liked to call her "Girl Anachronism" because he thought she was more like a Hollywood-lady from the fifties than a postmodern girl. Wow, so many things, he said, she was, she acts, she wanted...
All the things he said while they were smoking on expensive cigarillos. The made her forget, how she defined herself. All the photos he had taken, they made her forget how she looked.
His camera became her mirror. Now she was smoking alone. And she recognized: She was a girl, who lost the keys to the lock of her bike very often, who leaned at the wall of her ex-boyfriends house in November and smokes on her father's expensive cigarillos. She looked quite good. Desperation suits every postmodern girl.

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