Blind distrust

Since Captain James Cook imported from the South Seas the famous Polynesian word and it became an integral part of the English dictionary, the strongest social prohibitions received a new and genuine name: Taboo.

Breaking taboos can be considered objectionable, abhorrent, disgusting, loathsome, obnoxious, offensive, repugnant, revolting -and any other discrediting label you might think of- or even prohibited by law and severely penalised.

Luckily, some taboos from the past have already become old fashioned. The line that should never be crossed moved forwards and now many people –including you and I- are regularly stepping into the strict yesteryears of prohibition forbidden land. But those generally known as “common courtesy taboos” have nowadays more to do with etiquette and polite society than with prohibition. And unless you’re a political correctness freak, you probably ignore them as much as I do.

The word ‘taboo’ itself inspires a mishmash of ideas and controversies in my mind: uncertainty, embarrassment, unbearable curiosity, insecurity and … either acceptance or rejection.

(So now kids, run away before it’s too late. Don’t say I didn’t warn you).

Sex and taboos are often linked together. As long as there are adults consenting, whatever is done behind closed doors is their own business. And although an endless list of sexual acts is no longer considered taboo nowadays, there are still others that haven't quite made the transition into mainstream just yet.

I like to recreate my favourite taboos through fantasies. I adore them seasoned with a little kinkiness, if possible. Like dressing special; using gizmos; some slightly dirty talk; impossible positions; and a little roleplay, to make it funnier and more enjoyable.

But I’m not as kinky as you may think. I’m not a variety freak either. Yet Ed thinks I am. He mistakenly thinks he has to break every rule and do something new to me every single time we have sex, to keep me satisfied. If he just knew it takes so little to make me happy.

That fine Friday afternoon, after the leather jacket episode, I saw myself involved in a very surrealistic situation -for which I was entirely responsible- that started when Ed texted me this message:

“I loved what you did with the jacket. Come home tonight for more fun”

That sounded promising. I wondered what he had in mind.

We agreed to meet at 8PM at his place. I drove to the outskirts. Ed’s house was beautiful, but sometimes it looked to me like a haunted mansion. That evening there was something very ghoulish about it.

As usual, I was greeted by the ghost butler opening the door. We had our regular conversation for the tenth time that month:

- Good evening Ms Qinan. –he said-
- Good evening, Stoicescu. –I said-
- Please, be so kind as to come in. Lord Davies is waiting for you at the library.
- Thank you, I know the way.

When I entered the room, Ed was pouring himself a glass of whisky. It was very dark and warm too. There was a big piece of wood burning in the fireplace and the weak light projected macabre shadows on the walls.

- Hi sweety. Come in, please. Can I get you something to drink? –he asked-

I don’t drink normally, but I felt I had to accept this time.

- Hi, Ed. I’d like a whisky on the rocks, please.-I said-

He poured it in a highball glass that he handed to me.

- This is to thank you for what you did to me yesterday night, honey –he said, smiling-.
- What did I do to you yesterday night? –I asked, very intrigued-
- You don’t remember?
- Ehm… no.
- In bed.
- What did I do to you yesterday night in bed?
- You really don’t remember? –he asked, surprised-
- No, what did I do?
- You spooned with me and started stroking me and squeezing my dick. I couldn’t sleep anymore, but I liked it.
- I must have been asleep, because I don’t remember having done that. Anyway, I'm glad you liked it.
- Excellent. That makes it even more genuine and true.

I laughed.

- I wonder how did "Dick" become a nickname for "Richard"? I always found it very funny.
- I grew up already knowing the name “Dick” before I started using the lower case beginning word. Hm... have you ever thought what might happen if Dick were to meet Fanny? I'm pretty sure they would get on very well together.

We laughed.

I gulped the drink nervously. I was asking myself what he had called me for. I assumed it was not just to thank me for having squeezed his dick the night before with dedication and natural ability.

‘Come home tonight for more fun’, said his message. My glass was nearly empty.

- Want a refill on that, honey? –he asked-

I should have said ‘no’, but I nodded instead and he poured me a second drink. I started getting drunk. The whisky was enveloping my head, taking me over. He could have done whatever he wanted to me.

I still can’t remember how we got from there into his bed, probably due to my drunkeness. We shared his pajamas: he stripped to the waist and offered me his shirt. A woman always looks hot in a men’s pajama shirt, bare legs, nude buttcheeks, and the guy looks cool just wearing the pants, his torso naked.

I put my nose into the palm of my hand and breathed deep. I got a shot of male feromones directly into my brain. He had that special scent. That brought back a rush of memories and my subconscious started playing tricks with me. I vaguely remembered the night before… but not a trace of me squeezing anything.

- I want to tie you up, Leni. If you… want that too, of course. –he whispered-.

I hesitated for a split second. I had never done that before. “So what? –I thought-. There’s always a first time for everything. He wanted a little domination… “Ok, let him have his fun” –I thought to myself-.

He was staring at me, waiting for an answer.

- Ok, why not? –I answered, not totally convinced, nodding… ‘yes’-

He left the room. Five minutes later he was back, bringing two pairs of handcuffs, a blindfold and a rope.

- Are you sure you want to do this, sweety? Just for fun, as a game. –he asked-
- Yes, I’m sure. –I said, too fast-
- Lay on the bed, then.

I was going to do that, when he ordered:

- Naked.
- Oh, ok –I croaked-

Sometimes I find it real hard to say ‘NO’. And ‘NO’ is one among these words I would never dare say to him. Yet, I slowly walked over on trembling legs and sat down on the bed, as I removed the pajama shirt.

He tied the blindfold to my head so that I couldn't see anything. Then he took my right hand, pulled it back to the bed’s headboard and opened one of the handcuffs with a tiny key. I started worrying. I was not comfortable with the bondage kit.

- You won’t be able to see what to expect now, baby. This will enhance your remaining senses. And you will focus your attention on sound, smells and physical contact. –he said with a low voice-

OK, but…

What if he secretly wanted to film or photograph us having sex without me knowing? I would freak out.

What if he suddenly felt dizzy, fell backwards and hit his head badly in the middle of that? I would remain there for days until someone could report to the police about our disappearance and the cops would finally find my smiling skull and naked skeleton tied to Ed’s bed, his corpse laying on the floor without a trace of violence. Hey, that would be fun, wouldn’t it?

What if I hadn’t noticed his hidden sadistic side and I didn’t realise he was a psycopath serial killer who would do to me any imaginable horrible thing you could conjure up on the spot? That would be very fun too.

He had locked the handcuffs around my right wrist and headboard bar. He took then my left hand and pulled it back to the opposite side of the bed’s headboard.

- Are you completely sure? –he asked-
- Oh, yes. –I said-

My voice quavered as I spoke. I struggled to calm down and pretended I was feeling good. But no; I wasn’t. Moments of terrible doubt were appearing.

What if he was a dominating alpha male who enjoyed having violent sex with submissive, indulgent, defenceless, little females like me?

What if he was a bloodthirsty criminal disguised as a beautiful harmless editor who would lock his victims in the basement to kill them them after having given them ruthless, cruel, endless tortures?

And there I was. Naked on the bed; handcuffed; blindfolded and soon tied. It could be just a roleplay game, but I couldn’t control my wild thoughts. Suddenly, paranoia became so intense that I started asking myself why the hell I gave my consent to that game and thinking I was into serious shit.

I had heart palpitations and flashing visions of my blood splashing the walls of the room; I started sweating; I breathed painfully. When he tied the rope tightly around my ankles I yelled in panic; arched my back; kicked my legs into the air, trying desperately to escape. He was in shock and immediately stepped back.

- What happens? -he asked, very alarmed-
- Untie me, please, you're scaring me!!!

He quickly unlocked the handcuffs. I removed the blindfold, took my clothes and dashed out of the room. I got dressed hastily on my way out through the corridor and left the house without even saying goodbye.

When I arrived home I felt horrible. He must have thought that I was such a cockteaser. I couldn’t explain my sudden panic. And what was worse, I felt terribly stupid.

It was almost midnight when he called me on the phone.

- Leni. –he said-
- I’m sorry, Ed. I panicked, I don’t know why…
- It’s ok, never mind. –he said with a low voice-.

I sighed with frustration. I flushed with embarrassment. I tried to find the words but really, I couldn’t say anything.

- I have disappointed you. -I whispered-
- No, honey. You haven't. But I asked you three times if you were sure about that and you said 'yes'.

-I don't know what happened to me, Ed. All of a sudden I became paranoid and...

-You don't have to explain. Just learn to say ‘no’ if there’s something you don’t want to do. I won’t be disappointed if you refuse to do something I ask for. I hate nagged sex. That’s forcing. And I would never force you. Sex is not just always pleasing our partners, you know? You shouldn't have to do anything you don't like just to make a guy happy. There are better uses for your time and energy.

He put the telephone down in sadness and annoyance.

My mouth tasted sour. I couldn’t stand the pain.
Love takes hostages and I realised my life wasn't my own anymore.

I wrapped myself into the blanket, cried quietly in bed and drenching my pillow with tears, fell asleep.

“The streets of love” (The Rolling Stones).

Gummi candy

When I hear the words 'Generation gap' I never think of my granny. You know what I’m talking about: that notorious situation when older and younger people do not understand each other because of their different age, experiences, opinions, habits or behavior.

“Don’t trust anyone over 30” said –almost shouted- an old slogan of the sixties. It was certainly not as conclusive as ‘Power to the people’, ‘Make love, not war’ or ‘Be realistic, demand the impossible’ but it still pictures fairly well how this pattern works.

Despite my hippiecritical analysis, I must say that in addition to the number of years between generations, nowadays rock music and computer science seem to enlarge the separation between both sides of the gap.

But that doesn’t apply to my granny: With the exception of HAL 2000 -the evil machine of the book and film "2001: A space odissey"- she couldn’t care less about computers; least of all about the best rock bands in Sandwich (like Shagstore, Dr John and the Bamboo Dicks or Wanking Suzy and the Mohicans). She just thinks the island is full of horny people yelling like wilds pigs pretending they’re singing. That’s that. And yet, her 80-year old young brain is under continuous evolution.

We’ve always practiced the ‘live and let live’ thing, which means we’ve reached a level of maturity and understanding that enhanced our harmonic coexistance. But that day she called me on the phone and what I heard really puzzled me and made me think all her modern wisdom had evaporated.

- Hello sweety.
- Hi granny! How are you? –I asked-
- I’m fine, Leni. How come you didn’t tell your granny that you became famous? –she asked-

Oh my god. Again that picture of Ed and me kissing in all the newspapers.

- Granny, I’m not famous. It’s that guy I’m going out with, the one who’s famous.
- Yay! He’s very attractive! And a real catch! I presume he’s the most sought-after bachelor in Sandwich! I hope his intentions are entirely honourable…

That question shocked me a bit, coming from her. She hoped his intentions were entirely honourable... what did she mean? That I should get from him a marriage proposal on bended knee after a reasonable time? Gosh... I never thought she would sound so old school! She had always been pretty open-minded and liberal about human relationships. I’m the only girl in the family and her youngest grandchild. I could understand why she would want to make sure I was dating a normal guy and not a freaking weirdo, but she was overdoing the protection.

- Don’t speak to me in code, granny. What do you mean with ‘entirely honourable’? –I asked-
- I mean he’s not toying with you, Leni. You’ve had failed love affairs in the past and I’ve already seen you die of sadness before.

I sighed. That was true.

- His intentions are entirely honourable, granny. He’s an upright and decent guy.
- Excellent. And how old is that cutie pie, if I may ask?
- Yes, you may. He’s forty five.
- Hm… isn’t he a bit old for you, sweety?

I just don't want to think what she would have said if I had confesssed he was 295 years old.

- Nah, that’s a very nice age! In the past I always thought of middle-aged guys as not eligible for a relationship. But he made me change my mind completely and now I don’t care at all about it. He’s in the prime of life and at the peak of his career.
- Leni, you're not supposed to know this, but these middle-aged men have their andropause. Cranks, fatigue, depression, anger, anxiety, loss of sex drive…

Eeeeek! My granny talking to me about sex! That's the last thing I expected to hear from her! It set my teeth on edge! Eeew…

- Oh, granny! I have seen none of those things in him!
- That’s excellent. And tell me… do you know if he’s been married before?

Wow. That question was a bit hard to answer. Ed married twice in his previous life, where he had been a well-known physician, so I had to be cautious and avoid further inquiries about his marital status, or my granny would soon find out about Ed’s supernatural origins just asking several sharp questions.

- What? Granny, we all have a past!!! Yes, he has been married before. –I answered shortly-
- So he has an ex… or even two. –she said, with an air of self-satisfaction-
- No, he was widowed twice.

- Oh my goodness me, poor thing! I hope he’s not too attached to the memory of his dead wives. –she said, sympathetically-.

I remembered when I was a student I dated this guy whose grandfather (who was the butcher in his town) was widowed four times. Yes, I also thought what you must be thinking. I made the predictable expected joke -'did he use the fine cutlery?'- but no: he was a very decent guy and an honourable family man -not Jack the Ripper's reincarnation-; but very unlucky, just like Ed was too.

- No he’s not. –I said, and remembered how he sent the ghosts of his two dead wives back to the underworld in summer, under strict instructions to stay there-. Granny, have I ever told you that you should be working for the FBI?
- Sweety, don’t get upset. Let me tell you this: I’m old and more experienced than you. If I could, I would protect you saving you all the time and pain. But unfortunately I can’t do that. Like Victor Hugo said, "you need courage for the great sorrows of life and patience for the small ones"; you have to learn for yourself. Maturing hurts. And living inflicts pain. The only thing I can do is give you some advice, if you want to take it.
- Sure, granny. I really appreciate.

- Then Leni, remember this: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; the essential is invisible to the eye. It’s not me who says this; it’s what the fox said to the Little Prince; you’ve read that book when you were a kid, remember? And it’s true as the night.

I smiled, though she could not see me.

- Are you still there, Leni?
- Yeah, granny. I'm here.
- Then, make sure his wealth doesn’t make him more attractive than he really is and tell me you’re neither under the spell of his high social status nor blinded by his world of luxuries; otherwise, passion will fade away soon, he will become completely unattractive and his funny jokes will sound flat and boring tomorrow.
- So all these questions of yours were a trap. You were testing me, right?
- Yes. You know I’m not an old fogey.
- Oh, good to hear. I started worrying about you when you asked me if his intentions were honourable. I thought you were going all prudish.
- Oh, no. But I’m interested in the honourability of his intentions too. And don’t avoid my question, Leni. Do you really love him?

As I was not answering, she said:

- Take your time and think of it. You’re the most interested person in knowing the answer to that question. Look for it, but remember: eyes are blind. You have to look at him with the heart.
- I will, granny.
- Bye bye sweety. Take care.

Some minutes later my doorbell rang. It was Ed, who was coming to my flat to collect the famous leather jacket. When I opened the door, he was leaning on the doorframe, dressed in a black suit and shirt, wearing a blue tie with a desing of furious sharks.

He smiled and bent over to kiss me. I closed my eyes and tasted him.

- Hey how is it going, love? –he asked-
- I was talking to my grandma on the phone. She asked me a lot of questions about you.
- Oh my god. Did I pass the test?
- I don’t know. She’s very demanding.

He stared into my eyes and I had to lower my look.

- What are these sharks? –I asked pointing at his tie-
- Don’t make them angry or they could eat you alive. –he laughed-

I went to my room and took the bag with the Hades jacket.

- This is for you, Ed. –I said, giving him the bag-.
- Leni, you’re unbelievable. What can I say? –he smiled-
- Say nothing. Just wear it. Enjoy it. And promise me you won’t lose it again.
- Of course, I promise I won’t!
- But if you did… I would find you a new one again; even if I had to move heaven and earth.

He took the jacket and had a close look at it, smiling with satisfaction.

- Put it on, sweetheart. –he said, handing me the jacket and staring at me with that look-
- Me?
- Yes, you. Who else?

I rushed to my room and undressed completely. I put on my patent leather high heels; my sexiest black undies; a garter belt; black stockings. And then, I wrapped myself in the black leather jacket.

I went back to him. I stood before him for some seconds, quietly looking into his eyes that glowed with the flame of desire. I slowly unzipped the jacket and took it off. He turned around me and had a thorough look. Then, he unclipped my bra with a fast move of his fingers and pulled my string down to my ankles.

He held me and whispered:

- You’re pretty safe wearing all that armour around your heart, aren’t you? But it won’t protect you from the dangers of my love. I know your heart is sweeter than gummi candy and I want it.




"Leather" (Tori Amos)

Dream making

Some people think dreams are the nightly remainders of our daily rubbish, carefully hidden in the folds of our brain cortex. According to this theory, these bits and pieces would be released during our sleep, as if our brain could throw up every night what needs to be deleted from our lives -just as a normal mental hygiene process- in exercise of the authority derived from being the major organ in the human body.

For some others, dreams are only the expressions of our restrained, rejected and suppressed hopes, wishes or fears, acted out by our brain; what we don’t dare saying or doing when we’re awake; our most secret and ignored self.

I personally prefer to avoid Gestalt therapists, Freudian theories and cheap interpretations of what happens during the natural state of bodily rest.

To me, life is but a dream and people are the dream makers. We create illusions. Some are brief, like the flash of a shooting star. Some others could last a lifetime. But regardless of its duration, a dream always becomes a world inside the real world, in the most typical Shakespearian fashion:

“We are such stuff

As dreams are made on;

and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep”

["The Tempest"]

Some time ago, I said somewhere in this diary "when I really want something, I go for it with all my might". That’s what I said to Ed when he lost his designer’s leather jacket some days ago. And I’m not talking about lost jackets here, but about perseverance and determination.

He was slack about his wish to recover it, yet he continued to complain and regret. I could understand his annoyance but not his laziness and indolence.

After our silly fight, I received a number of phone calls from him that I never answered and a few text messages that I didn’t even check. But I started setting off.

I surfed the net looking for Krook McKooky shop’s phone number, just as Dorian -my new neighbour- had recommended me to do. And I surprised myself playing one of the funniest roles that my sick mind had ever invented.

- Good morning. –said the shop assistant who answered my call-
- Good morning. I wonder if you would be kind enough to help me with a garment I’m looking for. My boyfriend bought a leather jacket at your shop some two years ago, but he lost it somewhere. He really loved it and I was wondering whether you still have it or not.
- I’m afraid we don’t. We’re only selling this year’s collection. But you may find it in the outlet shop, in the suburbs.

I thanked her and repeated the same procedure with the outlet shop, introducing some minor ornamental changes in my story, just for fun.

- My husband bought a very nice leather jacket at your shop two years ago, but he lost it in a trip. He loved it that much that I’d like to get him a new one for his birthday. I phoned the shop downtown but they said they only have this year’s collection, and I wonder if you’re still selling that jacket. -I said-
- Do you remember the name of the model? –asked the shop assistant-
- Oops, you name your jackets? –I asked back, surprised-
- Yes madam, all our designs have a name and a different colour label.

Jackets with names. I found it most peculiar.

- Erhm… to be honest, I don’t remember… -I stammered-
- Perhaps you remember what the colour of the label was? –asked the helpful girl- Orange? Green? Black?
- Eeeh… I’m afraid not. Oh, but I have a picture!

I had two snapshots of Ed wearing the leather jacket. If I managed to Photoshop them and blurr his face, I could show them at the shop.

- I think the best you can do is to come over to the shop with the picture. We’ll help you find it in the coat racks or catalogues from previous years. And if we don’t have it here, you can always order it from Krook McKooky’s shops in Southern Orsinia. –said the shopping assistant-

It sounded very promising. That same Friday afternoon I drove to the suburbs and visited the mall to do some retail shopping and then check if they had that wonderful leather jacket.

Have I already said that I simply adore to shop for clothing? Soon I found myself walking fast along the mall’s main street, carrying a hundred bags, when I found Krook McKooky’s shop on my way. Things looked like they were going right.

I rushed in and looked over all the clothes at the hangers. And you won’t believe it, but that wonderful black leather jacket was there, hanging from a coat rack. And it was calling me.

- Can I help you, please? –asked one of the shop assistants-
- Yes! I want that black leather jacket! –I screamed in excitement, pointing energetically-

I bet she never saw anyone more excited about a leather jacket than me in her whole life. I even rushed to get it.

But there was someone else there who was also interested: a guy who took it and tried it on just a second before I could get there. I almost had a fit when I saw him do that. But I quietly rushed beside him and used my most persuasive diplomacy.

- I know this is none of my business, but if I were you, I would try those brown jackets over there. They’re cheaper, same make and better quality –I said, pointing at them-

He looked at me as if I was crazy.

- That’s right, this is none of your business –he said-
- By the way… have you already noticed this black jacket is awfully expensive? –I asked-
- Yes. –he sighed, annoyed-
- I don’t think it’s your size, anyway. You’re too big.
- It is my size. I’ve just tried it on. –he smirked-
- They may have killed wild animals to make it –I said-
- Probably. But I don’t give a rat’s ass.
- And they could have even employed underpaid oompa loompas to manufacture it! –I said, shaking my head in disapproval-


The shop assistant looked at me with eyes wide like saucers but didn’t dare say anything. The guy laughed.

- What’s your name, please? –he asked-
- Leni.
- Ok Leni, if you were not that funny, I would have been quite rude to you. You can have the jacket. But please, tell me before I die from curiosity: Why on earth do you want it so badly?
- Give it to me and I’ll tell you why! –I said, holding out my hand to him-

He handed me the jacket.

- Shoot. –he said-
- The guy I like loves this jacket. -I whispered-
- Let me rephrase: the guy you love likes this jacket. Lucky man, I wish my girlfriend was so unwearying!

When we finished the conversation, I ran to the cash desk, paid for the jacket with my credit card and asked to have the jacket wrapped in the finest tisue paper; tied with the loveliest ribbons; kept in the most stylish bag they had.

When I left the shop, I smiled and breathed deep. I was happier than a coondog on a bare leg.

I drove back to my place with the leather jacket in the car trunk, feeling self assured: Ed would just love it. I rang on Dorian’s door to give him the news.

- Hey, I got the jacket! –I yelled, jumping for joy-
- Jeez that’s cool, Leni. Congrats!
- Thanks for your help.
- My pleasure. –he smiled-. I hope Ed likes it.
- How do you know about Ed?
- Everybody knows about you and Ed in Sandwich. People like gossiping and petty intrigues here. I love to have a famous neighbour.

What a small island! I never wanted to be famous. I rushed to my flat. I couldn’t wait to phone him.

- Hey Ed. –I said-
- Hello, babe. How was your day?
- Great. I bet you’ll never guess what I did today.
- Tell me, I’m all ears.
- I went shopping for clothes.
- Cool. Did you buy yourself some nice stuff?
- Oh, yes. But next to the shop where I bought myself a wonderful dress… was Krook McKooky’s. They had nice clothes for women, so I had a look. And when I was walking to the exit gate, I saw something you like. Guess what it was.
- You tell me.
- Comeon, Ed. Just a little effort. I know you can do that.

He kept quiet for a while and said:

- I don’t dare say it.
- Just try.
- …
- Please, try. –I laughed-

- You found my old jacket???
- Yes.
- Then it would be worth to buy it.
- No.
- Why not?
- Because I bought the last one.
- Really?
- You like it a lot, right?
- Yes, true.
- Then… if you want it, you’ll have to come to my place to collect it.

- That would be lovely. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.
- I would recommend not to drive your black Bentley. Least of all with your Transilvanian driver. That would be a bit ostentatious and I live in a plain middle class neighbourhood.

He laughed.

- I only use my Bentley when I want to impress women, but I also have a small Lexus. –he said-
- Excellent. A little posh for my taste, but it will do. Anyway, try to go unnoticed, ok? Don't scare my neighbours; don’t try to impress women on your way; don’t drive at top speed; and don’t skid in front of my building or argue with other drivers, please. I hate that.
- Leni.
- Ed.
- You’re an angel. You’re making a dream come true.
- Me an angel? –I laughed- I can be a pain of the grandest kind, Ed. You had a dream. I just had a plan.

- I’m not talking about the jacket, Leni.

I knew perfectly well what he was talking about.

Oh, by the way, two final silly details that were missing: the jacket label was orange and its name was Hades, like the Greek god of the underworld. Unbelievable, isn’t it?

"Be my angel" (Mazzy Star)

For the sake of good neighbourliness

I’ve always wanted to live in a cosy house with flowers in the back garden and a big skylight to watch the moon from my bed and hear the rain tapping on my window.

Unfortunately, with the present astronomical housing prices, I can only afford to pay the mortgage of a studio flat downtown, with a small terrace and a parking place at the basement. There are 85 flats in the apartment block where I live, sold at the modest price of half a million G each (being G the official currency of the South Sandwich Islands). There's also a nice swimming pool and a small children playground with swings. The only inconvenience is… there are too many neighbours.

Nevertheless, I firmly believe in peaceful and harmonic coexistence in the neighbourhood. But that’s all I believe in.

The lady who used to live next door -actually an annoying busybody- felt seriously offended when I didn’t return her invitation to see the new furniture in her kitchen one fine Monday evening when I was back from work. I was a bit surprised about it and not in the least interested in her kitchen cabinets, but for the sake of good neighbourliness, I even accepted a cup of coffee.

As I said before, I never returned the invite. That was a big mistake. She never spoke to me again after that.

Let me put you in the picture: when I go into the garage under my apartment block, as I do every evening when I drive back from work, I park the car in my space, number 69. Then, I hurry to get to the lift before any neighbour who might be parking near does. I press the lift button, and as soon as the door opens, I get into it quickly. I press the button for the third floor -my floor- pleased with myself because I have won the race against my neighbour. I do not feeling like sharing my space in the lift with anyone else at the end of a working day; and I do not feeling like doing the journey with anyone else, having to say ‘good evening’, talk about the weather or ask what floor they are going to.

Don’t misunderstand me. I am very sociable really, but I do not enjoy this business of getting on with neighbours. I do not like people trying to be overly friendly with me just because we have some space in common; people who may use the excuse of seeing my new boiler or inspecting the dividing wall between us to satisfy their curiosity about me.

The reason for that is very simple: I refuse to accept the idea that one fine day someone could listen to my early morning conversations, heated arguments or affectionate reconciliations through the bedroom wall when I'm not alone, or that they should see my home in a mess overflowing with junk; this home of mine where all the furniture has either been lent or comes from outlet shops and flea markets.

Anyway… back to the lady next door: she moved out two months ago. Obviously, after our awful diplomatic record, she didn’t even say goodbye to me when she left. The next thing I knew was that I had two new neighbours. It couldn’t be worse than it had been before with the neighbour lady -pretending we hadn’t seen each other every time we met at the doorway-.

Last week, in the middle of a warm Sandwichian night, I sat on the terrace drinking Coke and reading a book. I love to sit there sometimes, under the moon and the stars; to breathe the scent of orange and lemon blossoms in the night breeze and listen to the sound of the waves rocking the beach.

All of a sudden, my daydreams were interrupted when one of these two new neighbours jumped in the terrace. Yes, you heard me: I said ‘JUMPED’. It was a beautiful white long haired cat with impressive green glowing eyes.

I’m not a cat person, but for the sake of good neighbourliness, I stroke its hair and wondered who his owner was. That was not difficult to answer: My second new neighbour was leaning out of the balcony looking for his friend.

- Hi, my name’s Dorian. And she’s Pearl but she has already introduced herself, I think. -he said-
- Oh yes, now we’re friends. I’m Leni. Nice to meet you Dorian; that’s a very nice name, by the way.
- My mom likes a lot Oscar Wilde. –he said smiling and blushing-
- That’s an excellent taste for literature! Especially Dorian Gray’s. –I said, smiling back-

Dorian was cool. Contrary to my normal behaviour, I showed some hospitality and asked him to join me for a drink at the terrace. He accepted.

- Excuse me but… you look familiar to me. –he said-

Jeez: My picture in the papers kissing Ed made me so famous.

- Oh, probably. There’s nothing special about me, I’m just… run-of-the-mill. –I said, playing down the importance of what he just said-
- Actually, I think I saw you in the papers last week… don't know exactly where...
- I hope you’re not a reporter. –I asked, quite concerned-
- Oh, no, no. I’m a designer.
- That’s interesting. And what do you design?
- Clothes.

He immediately let me know he was gay. It was a bit embarrassing; not by the fact that he was gay, but because I felt as though he would be somehow showing me the limits. (Gosh, do I have such a lustful aura?).

My cellphone went.

- Hey sweety.
- Hi Ed.
- I presume you haven’t seen my motorcycle jacket, have you? But just in case… I’ve lost it, don’t know where exactly.
- I’m sorry, Ed. I haven’t seen it.
- Shit, it’s my favourite one; it’s a designer leather jacket and I always use it when I ride my bike. Probably lost forever. Never mind, babe.
- What’s the designer’s name, Ed?
- Krook McKooky.

I pulled trick no.1 out of my hat: if I had lost a jacket I loved so much and it would be so unlikely to find… I would try to buy myself another one.

- Oh, yes, there’s a Krook McKooky shop downtown. Maybe if you asked there… you could replace it with a new one. -I said-
- Nah, it’s an old design. They have a new collection now.

My first trick didn’t work at all. He was very upset. I remembered that beautiful jacket: Black leather, big pockets, sturdy zippers and straps across the chest. He looked stunning when he wore it.

Ok, trick no.1 failed; so I tried trick no.2: Since there was no way to get another genuine jacket at Krook McKooky's shop…

- Why don’t you buy yourself a new one? Maybe Hackett, Polo or Boss… just for a change? –I asked him-
- Hm… I’m picky, love. I’m very attached to my clothes and when I like something, I may wear it until it falls to pieces. Besides… I hate shopping. Or rather, I hate it when other people are shopping at the same time I am. And just in case you were wondering… you won’t drag me along to go shopping at these exclusive shops on Main Street…

Wow what a pissy mood! I tried my very last trick: gently trying to placate the situation. Normally, I have a very high success rate when I do. After all, you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.

- Nothing’s irreplaceable, Ed. If you want, I could go to Krooky McKooky’s shop tomorrow and ask them if they have another jacket like the one you’ve lost. Or check if there's another different one you may like.
- That’s very sweet Leni, but they don’t have it.
- Why not? Don’t give up so easily!
- Oh don’t be so unreasonably stubborn! They just don’t have it, I told you it’s an old design! –he said, raising his voice-.
- But how can you possibly know if you don't ask?
- I JUST FUCKING KNOW! -he shouted-
- OK! –I shouted back, putting the telephone down-.

What a stupid reason for a stupid fight. I phoned him again.

- Oh Leni… I’m very sorry…
- Don’t ever dare to shout at me again. It’s not my fault that you’ve lost your jacket. I was just trying to help. –I said and put the telephone down-

Some guys feel so attached to their old clothes that you could give them a heart attack just by donating to charity their old creepy stuff.

I could understand his annoyance, but what got on my last freaking nerve was that he wouldn’t move his ass to get himself the new jacket, even if he liked it that much. And I’m not stubborn but a fighter: when I really want something, I go for it. With all my might.

- Sorry to be indiscrete, but I just couldn’t help listening, Leni, I think I can help you. -said Dorian, who had been listening very quiet-
- Oh really? That would be lovely!
- Krook McKooky has an outlet shop in the suburbs. Just google it and you’ll get the address. They have old designs there and many stuff. You may find that leather jacket for your friend over there.
- Thanks Dorian. I'll do it even if it's the last bloody thing I do.

"Crown of love" (Arcade Fire)

Synapsis

I’ve been often told I’m a natural born empath. I was born like this, I guess. I’m intuitive and emotional and have always been able to pick up and channel the emotions and energies around me by simply glancing at them. Through an empathic bond, I can sense other people’s pain and emotions and see the inner beauty that shines from their souls. Far from belonging to the paranormal psychic’s tribe, I’d rather say that I have an expanded sensitivity that I feel like the inner power of healing with words and presence.

Over the years I have tried to shield myself so that I do not feel sad or miserable on account of others. Only a few got passed the walls I’ve built up to stop being hurt: the least harsh of words still can hurt me.

Feeling solo is beautiful. But nothing compares to feeling together. It takes two to tango, do the soul-to-soul synapsis and practice the natural ability to put oneself into another's shoes.

Talking about other people’s shoes; these Dr Mortensen black boots of Bob in my room were hurting my eyes like hell. You know, these awful heavy punk boots so out of fashion nowadays; yet he was so attached and fond of them that he wouldn’t do any throwing.

He left these huge boots at my place on a rainy day before the summer and never collected them. Just as if he had read my mind, he phoned me the day after my picture kissing Ed had appeared in all the Sandwichian tabloids.

- Len. –he said-
- Bob.-I said-
- Is that you and Ed Davies in the papers?
- Yes.

He kept quiet. I sensed pain and burning pressure in my heart. It wasn’t really what I was feeling but rather a faithful reflection of his sorrow inside me.

- I see. –he said, shortly-

He was not the kind to communicate openly, but to hold back words and emotions. By luck or misfortune, our moments of glory and our heart-gripping story of impossible love were fading away.

The irrefutable evidence of that was my indifferent, almost cruel, answer.

- What do I do with your Dr Mortensens? –I asked-
- What?
- Your boots.
- Oh fuck off.

He put the telephone down. That was rude, wasn’t it? But he missed his chance. And contrary to what they say… the postman never rings twice.

I didn’t regret it much. I always realized Bob was the non-committal type and knew this would happen, so I was ready to be ditched some day.

I put the boots in a big plastic bag. He had a 48 shoe size, and they were coming off my dustbin. So I decided to throw them away in the nearest bin, which was just around the corner.

On my way there, I had the strangest encounter: No sooner had I thrown Bob’s boots, a gipsy woman who came out of the blue followed me and gave me a little branch of rosemary. I dug into my pocket and handed her some coins, but she wouldn’t go. She whispered incomprehensible words, took my right hand and started telling my fortune. Her voice was rough and bewitching.

- You are a kind-hearted and good natured child. You come from a good mother and father …

Yes, I’m such a lovely little girl. I had heard that before.

I was intimidated by her terrifying look. Her big yellowish eyes were like the devil’s eyes. She had shiny jet black hair falling all along her back down to her thin waist, which was covered with veils. She was savagely beautiful and scary.

- You sometimes have a little bad temper, but it soon goes away. You're sad and alone, and some people envy you. Somebody gave you the evil eye, but I will take this curse away from you saying nine prayers to the Lord and offering up nine roses on the ninth day of the ninth month.

Evil eye? Uh oh, how come I didn’t know all that?

The religion thing –even the so-called universal or natural religion- gives me the shivers. And as far as I know, I neither suffered from supernatural bad luck nor had enemies looming up out of the mists of superstition. So it was a big fat NO, THANKS.

- That’s very nice, but I don’t pray. -I said-
- You should, me dear. All creatures have a place in the universe and God always listens to them.
- Well, for the moment I’m not interested in talking to Him. Or Her. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a lot to do. Goodnight.

I turned back to leave; I pulled my hand away from her, but she would never surrender, and seized it even stronger. She got closer, and staring into my eyes, said solemnly:

- You will give birth to a baby girl and live for ninety nine years. And now I will tell you the names of the two men in your life: There is a Robert who feels for you and an Edward who loves you from the bottom of his heart.

What a coincidence. Or was it perfectly planned? Whatever it was, I was not in the least interested in knowing how on earth she had found out about my bizarre triangular love situation.

When she stopped talking, she opened her hand and looked at me in the face. Her words became orders.

- You owe me 100 G. -she said-
- What?? You must be completely nuts.

Her eyes threw daggers at me. My hands were trembling with fear and I shivered down my spine. I thought she was going to conjure up some kind of terrible revenge, like cursing me and my descendants for five generations.

She suddenly changed her voice and whispered sad and softly:

- My dear child, you have to pay me so that I can take away from you the curse of the evil eye. Don’t be upset. Pay me happy my sweet, and misfortunes will disappear from your life.

Don't ask me why, but I gave her the money. I still don't understand why I did that. As soon as she had it, she ran away as quickly as if she had to break a speed record. I was ashamed, humiliated, afraid and furious at the same time. How stupid could I be?

I rushed back home, right on time to answer the phone.

- Hey sweety, I’m back in town. How do you feel? –asked Ed-

My heart skipped a beat. I smiled a big smile, as if he could see me.

- Ooh, It’s so nice to speak to you again, Ed. Now I feel much better, thanks –I said-
- Would you like to meet up tonight, babe?
- That would be cool! We could go to this very trendy new club… wait, I can’t remember the name… I have it on the tip of my tongue…
- No worries, Leni. I just want to be with you, that’s all.

But I was still thinking what the club’s name was.

- It's The Little Mermaid Club. Like the fairytale from Andersen.

He was quiet. And I bet he smiled.

- Do you know that tale, Ed? –I asked-
- Yes, but I’d like to hear it from your lips. Why don’t you come to my place? We’ll lay on the white leather couch, view the crashing waves out the window while we warm up by the fireplace and have a glass of red wine… and you'll whisper The Little Mermaid Tale into my ear…

WOW. That sounded so romantic.

That night I ended up telling a fairytale to the child in him. My little mermaid fell in love with the prince, but...

Was never betrayed or heartbroken;
Never threw herself into the sea at the break of dawn;
Her body never dissolved into foam;
She never turned into a spirit or became a daughter of the air.

She remained by her prince and they lived happily ever after.

- Why did you change the end of the story, Leni? -he laughed-
- Because I like happy endings -I said-

I rested my head on his naked chest. My thousand little empath sensors started feeling intense waves of love like I'd never felt before.

And they were directed to me.

"Thank you" (Dido)