The Constorium of Greater Minds

Her eyes are hard, fixed on the scene in the park below.
“It isn’t fair to you,” he says.
Below a grandmother sits on an ornate wrought iron bench reading to her two young grandchildren who are perched on either side of her eagerly peering at the story’s illustrations. Beyond them down the path two youths laugh and jostle one another while their girl friends shout at them in exasperation from further down the path.
“To make such a drastic change in one’s life on the basis of a single individual simply isn’t sensible. You see that don’t you? Who knows what may happen in the months and years to come.”
He places his hand on her shoulder. His fingertips burn with a cruel flame on her naked skin but she does not make a move to remove them. Nothing can break her concentration on the park below. The park they have lived above for the past two years. The park they would sunbath in during the summer, build snowmen during the winter. The park they would stroll through in the evening after dinner. She would often come to the balcony late at night when she could not sleep to gaze upon the soft glow cast from the art deco street lamps and listen to the sounds a car would make when driving slowly down the cobblestones of rue lacroix. This afternoon sitting on the balcony bathed in the warm August sun she felt she had never set eyes on her park before.
“Darling, we have to be smart about this, don’t you see. You understand,” he insists. “We are both young and shouldn’t be burdened by emotion in a time of such transition. Besides, this isn’t permanent. If we both feel strongly that we’ve made a mistake in two years we can reevaluate and in between there will be opportunities to be together. Darling, you haven’t said a word, what do you think?”
“You’re right,” she says softly. “You’re right.”
“See that’s being sensible, darling.”
He pushes his back from the balcony where he has been leaning and takes a seat beside her at the marble breakfast table. With one hand on her back he kisses her shoulder. Her skin is warm in the sunlight.
“This isn’t easy for me,” he whispers. “I want you to know that.”
“You think it’s easy for me,” she questions in a tone he cannot mistake for wounded sarcasm.
He says nothing but kisses her again on her shoulder and then on her cheek then stands up.
“I’ll go to the store for dinner. A baguette, laughing cow, tomato soup and a bottle of chateau pradeaux just like the night we moved in.”
He was looking for a reaction but got none and for the first time since their discussion began he had the faintest notion that perhaps he was making a mistake but three months of telling himself he was doing the right thing quickly ridded his mind of any such ideas.
Left alone on the balcony for the first time that day she let herself cry and as his footsteps grew fainter once he turned the corner of rue montagne she laid her head against the smooth balcony and watched as her teardrops collected on the white marble at her feet. The apartment was silent behind her, the park was silent below and she wept.

The most difficult part of seeing her again after so long is the realization that the next month together will not progress as so intensely anticipated. The inconsistency of expectation and reality cut deep with the painful blade of reality as the image of the idyllic reunion dissolves in a flood washed forth from an ominous rain cloud that descends upon the city on the third day. It’s in the eyes, the way she looks at him, the imperceptible glance away when he greets her. There is now a boundary between them, a force that although intangible will prove a greater barrier than any physical wall could ever be. She stands in front of him but the look in her eyes tells him she is now unavailable. Gazing at her realizing the change he sees her as she was two years ago when they parted. Her hair, black as midnight, a wild storm against the golden brown of her skin. The sadness in her heart betrayed by a glimmer in the corner of her eyes. Her lips are soft and taste like longing as she kisses him for the last time. Now, standing in front of him two years and three days later her eyes are hard, cold as the accumulation of their two winters spent apart. Where her beauty once engulfed him in a warm radiant glow it now leaves him in the shadow of a melancholy half-light.
Over the following days and weeks she moves further and further away and each day when he sees her it hurts a little more. She has her reasons, which she explains to him, self-preservation and the preservation of heart. Her energy is focused inward or so she claims; it’s in situations such as this that Love makes a skeptic out of everyone. Unrequited love has taught her to be cautious, he has taught her to be cold and he sees in her a reflection of himself. In this turn of fate he cannot help but admire the ironic cruelty with which Love plays her tricks.
For three weeks he exists in a state of limbo. Watching her as if from behind a camera, not in the scene himself but capturing every painful detail on a reel that is to be played continuously in his mind as he lies in bed at night, as he watches the surf crash on the rocky New England coast. He sees the way she carries herself in a group, what role she assumes, what part she plays. He watches, heart aching, as she interacts with other men. The way she laughs at a joke makes his stomach ache and to see her dance is almost more than he can take. When she laughs at another man’s jokes he is reminded of the way she would laugh at his own droll remarks, when she dances with other men he is reminded of the way they danced the night he found out she felt the same way. Now all those little things that would let him know she was his all serve to cruelly remind him that she is slipping further and further away.

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giovanca – on my way
-new school soul. watch out for this one. too catchy

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terry callier – what color is love
-old school classic. this music is truly fuel for the soul.

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no kids – the beaches all closed
-a mash of various musical stylings – comes out well on this track

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toninho horta – esperando aginha
-my man toninho is on some while my guitar gently weeps steez

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blonde redhead – 23
-on the atmospheric tip

now that we back in house house house HATE!

Guess Who’s Bizzack