It is Friday night. In the air you can feel jazz melodies, the fragrance of perfume, and the aroma of food being sold at a small discount. Tired bodies dress up for the evening and go out to get drunk on cheap beer and jazz, trying to forget the system. From the nearest pub, amateur musicians play untalented cover versions of their own lives. Outside the pub, a dog and a cat chase each other in circles, proving that opposites attract. The pub is full of tired faces that have come to tell the world that their bodies still represent life. They come here regularly, searching for new emotions.
I stand in my empty room, and the jazz music knocks against the closed window like an invitation to dance. Slowly, I put on my green dress, in which I long to seduce you, just as I have done a thousand times in my thoughts. I apply my red lipstick, whose language needs no translation. It sends an invitation. My dark hair merges with the night outside, ready for victories and voluntary defeats.
You stand alone in your empty room. Slowly, you button your dark blue shirt, behind which you hope to hide your insecurity. Then you reach decisively for the perfume that is meant to inspire confidence. Instead, its sharp, exotic fragrance fills you with doubt. Doubt like the uncertainty before a hunt.
The pub is already full of people, old stories and gossip. Lonely eyes, blurred by the steam, wander around, hoping that someone will stop them and speak. Faces, tired of life and swollen with alcohol, tell stories of old victories, when hunting was the surest way to impress a woman. No, not their wives, who have already become part of the familiar past and no longer bring new excitement. The men's eyes search for another woman in a green dress who will admire their stories and the silent pauses behind which they try to hide their excitement. The women's eyes search for heroes, hunters of lonely hearts like their own. Women's eyes recognise that excitement because they themselves are already somebody's wives, practising every day not to notice the grey hair and the old stories of past victories told by their unfaithful husbands.
The pub is full of women in green dresses and red lipstick. It is full of tall men in dark blue shirts and shy eyes. But I am not there. And neither are you.
I stand ready for a date. Alone in my empty room, I wait for you to give me a sign. You do the same. You rely on my determination and my free spirit. We need only a little courage to cross the boundary of our fantasy. We need only a little madness.
Time passes. Our tired bodies long to dance together to the rhythms of jazz. But the jazz grows quieter and more intimate. We dance to its rhythms, each of us inside our own fantasy. I cannot find a reason for such beautiful madness, and I do not invite you to meet me. You do not have the courage to do the same.
Outside, in the middle of the empty street, a lonely old dog howls sadly. Its voice blends with the sound of the saxophone, singing the song of unrequited love. The moon, intoxicated by the jazz, yawns wearily, winks playfully at the tired old dog, and slowly falls asleep.
Only your small window remains lit. You look towards the sleeping moon, searching for my reflection. I gaze with longing at the tired moon, exhausted from dancing, and search for you. Then I draw your face upon my window. You draw my face upon yours. That is how we shorten the distance between us. That is how we practise being brave.
An empty table stands in the corner of the overcrowded pub, overflowing with empty, showy happiness. An empty table with two glasses, a bottle of red wine, and a burning candle. They are waiting for our meeting.
The faces we have drawn upon the windows begin to melt in the warmth of the night. And so your face and mine merge into one. For a brief moment, free from suffering.
Because it is Friday night.
When everything is jazz and a longing for freedom.
(Elena S. Lyubenova)
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