An evening with Rachmaninov

No matter how hard I try to be on time, I never make it on time. It's every Wednesday morning, 9.50. I keep rushing.

This morning, I broke my own record: got in the shower at 9.15 (it really wasn't 9.15, but I like order, and I somehow think certain number combinations possess special meanings, so I'll just say it was 9.33), and locked my room and walked out of the building exactly at 9.45 (it indeed was 9.45, though).

It's always a combination of rushing and being slow. Adrenaline-anaesthesia; caffeine-dopamine; hyperactivity-relaxation. I'd rather take five minutes and sip my fennel infusion, and run, than fitting in the square edges of the time box. I got plenty of time to walk through the path of anxiety, dreams, hopes, cherry blossom, cravings, mirrors, and contemplation, before unplugging. I always make it on time. I keep rushing.

This morning situation was mirrored in the afternoon, on my way to distraction. I'd rather take an hour for sleep and pleasure, and squeeze the makeup tube and rub it with violence onto my colourless cheeks, than proceeding like the robot he asked me to be. I made it on time. I keep rushing.

Music is all about time, but he kept rushing. A good pianist, but not my favourite.

He keeps rushing; on the other hand, he takes his time. He is as cautious as a cat, as the cat at the café near Waterloo station, where the end of the world was predicted. He is as witty as a cat, moves as elegantly as one, and behaves as quietly as one. 'But the cat never appeared, so we keep on waiting.'

Friendship isn't love, nor it is pure passion. I find comfort in his open arms, but comfort is no longer all I need. I wanna be scared, I wanna be challenged, I want the fire lit up by the wax melting down from the candle of his blue eyes staring directly into mine. I'm not gonna fool myself this time. I want him.

We listened to Shostakovich once, we could've listened to Rachmaninov tonight, we could listen to Ligeti on Wednesday; and please let's listen to Max Richter in May. Listen to me and Dvorak and let's celebrate together the beginning of spring. In my red summer dress I bought only for you, dare, I'll be more than ready.

It'll probably be time by then. The time is probably now. I'm not so sure yet - still trying to fit the story in exactly 100 chapters, not 99, not 101, but 100. (I think of that promise I made back in time, but that's a different story). Please, be my number 101. There's plenty of time, but there's not much time to waste, life's too short for that. 

I've been a cat myself before, but missed the important things. Diners might get so full -visually, but in every physical aspect, that by the time mains are served, they'll all be feeling sick. On the other hand, appetisers mean diversion; they keep interest and entertain while waiting. The bruschetta tonight was quite dry, and the taste of truffles was so subtle it was nearly imperceptible; the risotto was properly cooked, right texture, but the fishiness of the seafood was overlooked by the spiciness of the red pepper; and the Aperol Spritz was just way too sweet. I want, I need balance. The right amount of expectation, to proportional amounts of satisfaction. 

I keep rushing, but the important things are worth waiting.