The Meeting

[Tino]

So we got this assignment a while back. An assignment that combined English with Philosophy. Our task was to write a philosophical text... in English. After a while it became apparent that this was too hard a task for many people, so the assignment got cancelled. That didn't stop me from finishing my text, though. Obviously this isn't perfect - probably far from good, even - but I still felt like sharing it. So if you have praise or criticism, please give it. In the Feedback thread, that is.

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The Meeting

The first day in spring, somewhere in March this year had emphatically invited him to visit one of the plenty terrace in town. He had seen a pub there which allowed him great vision on the square. This way he could observe people, which was one of the things he loved doing most. Observing people and their behaviour.

In front of him he saw a group of people stuffed to each other. A cacophony of sound, individually understandable for the direct conversation partner, but primary noises for the outsider, filled the sweet air. It was as if the pairing season had started. Women who had vivid colours on their sexually tingling parts of their body. Men showing their muscled torsos in tight shirts. It was as if the people already had taken an advance on the opening spring nature. As if they didn't want to wait until the first vividly coloured blossoms appeared on the trees and the first flowers came out of nowhere, and already had wanted to make their own composition of colours to please the Observer. It was a buzzing painting.

"A beer, please," he had said to the salacious servant when she asked him what he would like to drink. He loved that type. Medium long, brown hair, big, green eyes and a blinding smile. He saw her walk away and he looked at her chubby buttocks and legs, decorated with blue jeans, barely hidden through her apron and accentuated by two strings, which swung back and forth lightly and sometimes got stuck to the seam of her jeans, which was tightened to keep the contents inside. With her head slightly bowed to the bar, she gave the order to the woman behind the bar and looked outside for a short while, in his direction. He smiled, she smiled back. A smooth, soft cramp flowed through his body and he felt his skin get warmer. Spring seemed to have taken an advance on him.

When he turned his face back to the buzzing painting, he noticed a vague, dark and cold spot. One spot that, from the centre, released the colours to the close surroundings. One drop of water on a painting painted with water-based paint. Automatically he pulled one eyebrow down, something he always did when something fascinated him. The dark, cold spot was a shape that tried to find its way through the colours. As if he coincidently had landed in it and wanted to return to his own dark surroundings as quickly as possible. Faster than he had expected, the shape was in front of him. He was a tramp. He smelled horrible, some vanilla-like smell, and he looked terrible. He missed half a front tooth in his mouth, yellow-brown lips, fat brown and red scabs divided over his cheekbones. His mouth was surrounded by an asymmetrically divided beard, of which the blonde hairs only just superseded the grey ones. "Look at me," the tramp said with a remarkable forcing tone. And he looked him in the eyes. Grey-blue eyes, the white of his eye covered with red veins and pupils that motionlessly recorded his portrait. He saw the liquid of a tear put a layer on his left eye. A wave in the liquid moved in a circle to the corner of his eye, formed a drop that suddenly jumped over his eyelid and found his way down. "I said look at me," the tramp said even more intriguing and he stared at him. Right in the pupils. And slowly he got sucked in.

He was led in to the dark at great velocity. There was no bottom, there was no ceiling. He couldn't go back to the start and he didn't know the end. He had the feeling his legs were taking him straightforward, but he didn't see anything. He had gotten in a world where up or down was not discernible, only the existence of a consciousness. And an existence of space and time, otherwise he wouldn't have felt speed. It was impossible to specify which space, how many time, or what speed. Short, long, fast, slow. Nothing he could refer to. Not even to the value his emotion gave him.

Suddenly he felt himself go slower. He kept his eyes closed in expectation of the unknown, but when he carefully opened them he saw he had ended up in a concrete world. He had ended up in a dark place, under a bridge somewhere near the water. The surrounding area was vague. Listening to the sound he concluded he had been in an urban area. The street lanterns were lit, but where he was, you could only barely notice. Somewhere hidden behind the bushes was a person sleeping in a blue sleeping bag. Or rather, he saw a blue pile of rhythmic swelling and shrinking, as if the pile itself was breathing. Empty, flattened beer cans were all around the sleeping bag. A shopping cart filled with rags stood against the piers, a few feet away from the blue pile. There lay a person, with all his possessions around him.

He looked at his hands. They were dark, and for as far as he could see, they were dirty. In the light, no matter how few, he could always see fingertips light up. But not now. It seemed like all light was being absorbed. As if his nails were perfectly black. His hands were partially covered with an unravelled piece of material. When he inspected his other clothing, he noticed they were heavier than the clothes he'd normally wear, and that his clothes smelled terrible. A vanilla-like smell. Would he have crawled in the skin of the tramp? How would he possible get back to the terrace? He sighed and grabbed the bottle of whisky that was already next to him. He was shocked by the automatism of this gesture. Would he have become an alcoholic tramp? With the same scabs and the same beard as the man from the terrace? He took some, felt how he missed half a front teeth with his tongue, and intense sorrow overpowered him when his memories were forced forward.

He saw himself stand winced with a beautiful, but seemingly affected woman with in her arms the last box filled with her last possessions. A brunette with wide, green eyes and her mouth slightly opened. She had red ears at that moment, and there were dark bags under her eyes. He knew that, one way or another, she always had red ears and that she had something difficult to tell. He felt she would stab him to death. He, once a fierce and proud man, of whom nothing was left. Frustration, powerlessness and sorrow. Everything packed together as one large fist that brought a final destroying punch to all he had left. There he stood. Odd feelings in his stomach. His hands tied by powerlessness. He stood their in silence.

She had told him she had become a woman now. And that meant she was too good for him now. And she couldn't find the man she had gotten to know back then inside of him. Maybe he had more seriously been busy with the relationship than her. Maybe he shouldn't have worked so hard for a future that was already present. And she just talked, that beautiful woman, but he didn't hear her any more. Without blinking he had kept looking right in her eyes.

Fainted. Stunned. And she had left.

He kept standing there for a while. He didn't know for how long, but it was long. His eyes burned, but he didn't have any tears left and he didn't have the power to close his eyes. Seven years vanished in one quick moment. Suddenly his life wasn't his life any more, and he could only live from his memories.

Memories...

That same evening he got drunk. The bottle of whisky didn't leave the range of his mouth. He hadn't bothered to get a glass. He didn't care any more anyway. The first gulp had made him shudder. A small attack of stomach acid surfaced, but it wasn't a real attack, for the next gulp didn't cause an all-destroying blow. He was lying on his couch, talking out loud. As if he still wanted to glue to break between him and his wife, but meanwhile he knew that this attempt at gluing could better be done with the vacuous than with her. Everything was lost. He couldn't pay the house alone. He couldn't go back to his parents. He didn't feel like working anymore. It was all for nothing anyway. Everything was over.

Seven years of memories...

He had sat there on the terrace of the pub where she worked. She had walked to him with one glass of beer, had placed the glass on his table and a receipt with some numbers next to it. She had furtively cast a glance at him. After that she had quickly cast her glance down and had walked back inside the pub. At first he hadn't cared about the receipt, but when he checked it he saw a range of numbers that could only mean one thing: 530, the time at which she would be done working. He had immediately told himself to wait. Such a beautiful young woman you shouldn't let go. And if it would mean something else, she wouldn't notice and both would go their own way.

She felt warm and shy. Never had she met such a man. He had such beautiful eyes. Beautiful, grey-blue eyes and he moved his eyebrows in a funny manner. And he had ordered his beer so sweet. Would he like her. She thought she was a little fat. Probably not, though. He would probably have a girlfriend, but such a nice guy always has a girlfriend. Never had she really had a boyfriend. But he did smile at her and she knew he had looked at her back. Would he like fat women? He hadn't looked a different way when he saw her behind. If he would like her she would solemnly swear to plight her troth. She had to give him a hint, otherwise she would let this chance pass. As had happened many times already. Because of her fat ass. A simply hint. Not too many words... Numbers!

She wrote it on the receipt: 530. Next she put the receipt next to the glass and walked outside. She put the beer in front of him, the receipt next to it. She looked at his eyes. Such sweet eyes. She felt herself blush and quickly walked away, back inside. She had never done this before and hoped he would understand the hint. And if he didn't understand, he'd never know she had done something she usually didn't have the guts to do. Then both would go their own way and forget the other. Now knowing what they would miss, good or evil.