a little chicken, a little courage

I had a conversation. After a thousand odd years. It lasted six hours. And will probably remain and fossilise in my head for another thousand. Provided I am mummified of course. To excited future excavators, relax. There are no curses for defiling my tomb. Just be a little careful of my spine. I have one. Unlike most in my era.

I return to the conversation. I still remain excited and stimulated even after 48 hours have passed. That can be attributed to the fact that I remain an asocial being. Seldom going beyond my call of duty to entertain or be entertained. I have realised (with much disappointment) that I don't really need people around me. I am a tremendous socialiser, I agree. A great hit amongst goats of all ages. And yet, in the last year I have infrequently found myself alone in bars and pubs, quietly drinking the evening away. I drink fast. I tip heavy. And I leave without a fuss.

Besides most of my conversation at work is the same. The same words, the same contexts, the same frustrations, the same stock images, the same scripts, the same headlines, different clients. Hence, a real conversation with a real person is like a big deal, really. Add to that, the fact that the person in question, is a petite, attractive woman with the most revealing eyes in the world and you are like the cat. With that bird inside of you.

We spoke a lot. Mostly religion. The politicised nature of religious hierarchy. Of Christ. Of Buddha. Of Allah. Of Rama. Of history. Of science. The evolution of man through a series of happy co-incidences. Of karma. And, lastly us. A passionate (and often, heated) exchange of two lonely people caught with each other, out of a selfish need to be heard. To be with someone. If only for a few hours, before reclining to our respective shells. Where we sleepwalk the rest of the week in. With rude words thrown in for good measure.

And we are stubborn. Both of us. In our rights and wrongs. But there's a marked respect. And in another world and time could possibly have been lovers. Some of what she said was pretty preposterous though. And I wouldn't subscribe to them even if God told me to. Though she is way closer to Him than I am.

I had prepared some chicken. And when most people were being attacked by mutants or cost accountants (or both) in their sixteenth nightmare, we finally got down to eating it. She loved the chicken, she said.

The conversation continued. Unhindered. Through the chomp and clink of dinner.

And yet this is not about the conversation. In our little lives we have played out many wars. The debris lies there still. Motionless and scattered in unnamed ghost towns of the soul. Though we may not be prepared yet to sweep them clean, both of us still reached out to each other. With affection (though she claims to be unaffected by it). With trust. With longing. With desire. And though somewhere I am sad that she wasn't really mine on this ocassion, I know that one evening she will be. And I hope she returns. Not just once. But again and again.

Because with time, we will move on. To other people. To love. To family. To dependency. To routine. But I don't think I will ever be able to forget the soft request that melted my heart the first time.

And those eyes.

Cartoon: Off the Mark by Mark Parisi. But you already know him, don't you?