i go watch a movie

(2016. jan)

1.

I inhale smoke into my not-so-long-ago healed lungs. I feel the black patches, that are the remainders of my pneumonia itch a tiny bit, I suppress a cough. The sky is gray and my pants are green, they are quite new, in fact, all of my clothes are new and they are among those few pieces that I own that are not from a second-hand shop. My mother bought all the clothes that I’m wearing: my dark green pants, my dark blue and black sweater, my pointy shoes, we bought them together in the same mall in front of which I am waiting right now; the mall has several stores, and also a cinema, I walk away from the mall to look for a place where I can smoke safely.

The mall is really close to the main road of the city, all sorts of people drive there whom I don’t want to know that I smoke, I go to a small street somewhere behind the mall, across of the protestant church which has a fresco of a deer on the front side of it. The air is now so gray that I think the sun is going down, someone is walking towards me, I blink at him, do I know him, is he dangerous, no he is not. Still, he keeps looking at me as I walk by, I try to not look at him. I know that I won’t be able to walk back to the mall until he is far enough, or else he will think I’m following him. I don’t know what would that mean, but probably not good, I imagine following him, coming up to him and telling him “I’m not following you,” then walking past him to prove that I really am not, and walking into the mall. But what if he goes to the mall too, and worse, what if he goes to the cinema, and worse, what if he goes to the same movie. I remind myself that I’ll be in company so he probably won’t think I’m following him, and besides I don’t even have to walk past by him because I remember I’m meeting her outside of the cinema, of the mall? In fact, I realize I don’t exactly remember where I’m meeting her, we said we’d meet outside, but that can be outside of the cinema, or outside of the mall, which are two different things. I take another puff, I remember she is smoker too, she will want to smoke so we will meet outside. Outside outside, I mean.

2.

We meet inside after all. Before she open her mouth I realize I forgot her voice, when she will open her mouth I won’t recognize it, it’s going to be alien, someone’s voice, I have never heard, held together with the rest of the phenomenon that is her by her face, her face I believe I’ve never grown unfamiliar with. But when I see her I realize I lost her face as well, it’s been two years, ever since then I only looked at her on photos, photos are static, but she is not. Her face, beautiful as it is, is fluid, ever changing, from expression to expression, from moment to moment it takes on a new form, so fast it reminds her face of the hurricane. I realize how much the expression ‘eye of the hurricane’ is perfect, and fitting, because once stripped of everything, the color of her nails, the same clothes she used to wear, the painfully perfect body, the birthmark above her right breast, her hair that fluctuates in color, yet always returns to black, and finally her turbulent face, under those many layers of buildings blown away, trees torn by their roots and poor souls revolving around and around in the air, it’s the eyes, the eyes that are calm and just as in a hurricane, there is a peace filled with tension in them, the only way they can be with all that chaos, destructive circles, ever returning winds and never ending turbulence around them, her eyes are defined by everything else she is, a Dostoevsky fan, a nymphomaniac, a girl who has once been in Egypt, someone who cannot drink liquor anymore, her, a cinema, smoking, long hair, me. And around us, nothing else.

3.

We are both shooting blanks as we walk back to the bus station, keeping the conversation alive just for the sake of hearing each other’s voices. We both feel that it’s not worth to come up with a decent enough topic, we feel we don’t have enough time even to start making out again.

It’s alright. The time is nearing 22.30, it’s a Sunday night, the streets are empty, the sky is empty. My legs follow her, pick up her tempo, we walk by a church, it was snowing earlier. The words roll from my mouth like gear fall from a rusty machine, my functionality now merely exists to comprehend her. I get on the bus and I sit. Finally, I can stop functioning. The bus vroom vroom vrooms, I lean back on my seat, take a last glance and sit there, I sit there for the next fifteen minutes. I only move again once the bus has reached my stop, otherwise I just look at the floor, the way I look at the empty sky while I’m walking home. My brain tries to tell me that I’m drunk, my body walks sober, my soul is frozen with some altruistic, ceaseless dread and keeps any rhythm of thoughts behind the silver veil of non existence. My mouth is a black hole that needs a cigarettes. I stop and light a cigarette, supernova. I’m behind a line of trees, on the other side there is the main road. Past that there is Hungary, past that there is the world. Mohos Máté is in Hungary, Hungary is in the world, Hungary is a country. I pull out some thoughts out of myself. I need to eat, finish packing, and go to sleep in time, because I’m waking up early tomorrow. I should also stop smoking, it’s bad for me. In three months time, I will watch a lung operation in a documentary, in four months time I will buy a vape. But right now I’m hidden, and in a sense only she knows where I am, behind the trees, in Balogunyom, in Hungary, in the world.

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