Cheese & Mousetrap — A night in stranger’s bed
On Friday nights, the city’s gourmet quarters are packed tight. The tables are booked to the last served dishes. Always busy and buzzing. There is a turbulent mood at the bar and a fanatical zeal for freedom marking the end of another treacherous week. Old pavements with wooden houses of Alsace architecture, Strasbourg is busy like a beaver on Friday nights.
My classes got over at 5 PM. I was sitting in the cafeteria under a pile of papers, which were still warm, from the overused printing machine. The coffee machine tinkled and sputtered at distant.
I needed to finish my work, but the headache was starting to kick in like a slowly fuming volcano inside. A constant struggle was aching inside, watching people from the other side of the glass window, storming to catch the action live with a beer at the nearest crashing spot.
When I finally finished after two hours, I wanted to drop dead there. I spotted the pallidness in my skin and face and headed straight to the nearest joint.
The steep, dim lighted alleyway was like a pedestrian thoroughfare. The stores were jumping in and out of the shadows, mostly closing early tonight.
A guy, in the black coat, white shirt, black tie, grey hair and tattoos covering his neck was sitting up front at the gate. I already knew what he would ask for, and hastily held out my ID card, which he hardly bothered to take a glance, and opened the door behind him.
It was a karaoke bar, with small round cabaret tables, a large cushioned sofa at far corner for big groups and a stage at the back with the guitar-drums-bass trio.
I grabbed a seat at the farthest corner of the place, sharing the tables with two ladies, who already inebriated. They hardly noticed me, slipping past them and sitting with my back at the wall.
They were playing some pop or jazz songs, I barely recognised, but the soft tones were comforting. The waitress came. She was in her late twenties, petite and gamine, with shining black hair, a nose ring, and deep blue eyes.
She was attractive.
“May I bring you something”, she asked.
“A burger, a pepperoni pizza and two bottles of Desperados.” I had already made up my mind before entering the place.
“Are you alone, or you are expecting someone?” she asked.
“Not till now, I am just worried about sleeping malnourished.”
She left. The music became louder, as songs shifted from Coldplay to Hotel California, La Vie En Rose.
She was back quickly and laid out the food for me. She turned away with a wink, or maybe that’s what I perceived. Few drinks later, I was utterly riveted to the spot. I trudged back to the counter, to pay the bills and got out on the streets, for some fresh air and smoke.
I edged onto the kerb and turned around, to see the waitress leaving. It was half-past midnight, and she walked up to me and asked, “Where are you headed?”.
“Home.”
“Do you mind, to join me for a coffee. Judging by your looks, you could do some, I guess.”
Yes, I couldn’t deny, I badly needed something hot. We got two hot chocolates and started towards the nearest tram station. In this hour, the service had stopped.
We found out we live close by, but somehow the “Au Revoir” didn’t come, standing at the door of her student house.
“Do you want to come over to my place? We can hang out for a bit, and I have a guest room, you can crash there.” At this point, I seriously wanted to snug in my shelter, but I relinquished my desires to go back, and gladly followed her lead.
It was a small cosy place, the colours were muted, clean, with pictures hanging from the wall. New York, maybe before she came here, summer vacation with family.
“What are your research areas?”, she asked, to which I gave her the capsule bio of my work. I had no idea what she understood, but she was all into arts and music. I took out two mugs from the shelf, rinsed a pot and fired some coffee. The whole room was filled with a strong aroma.
I pride in my playlist — found the speaker tucked in a corner, and connected the Bluetooth. “Can’t Help Falling in Love” — I started listening to Elvis from a very early age, my dad was a big fan. Cherished his fashion sense, “They don’t make such songs these days”, he will often say. Right, I agree.
She came back after some-time from the shower. She was all pink and damp and smelled of shampoo. Her feet were bare, and she was wearing a robe, must be not much underneath. We jabbered for some time, with a lot of burping and slurping the hot substance.
I got up, ready to leave when she said: “ You can stay here if you want.”
By that time, I was pretty certain one or more buttons were undone in the front of her shirt, and the original gap was quite appealing before, as I had unknowingly inspected. I could see her pale, yellow skin.
“Yeah, I think I will,” I replied.
She was soft and half my height in repose. But, quite supple and lissom in motion, and her performance was quite an art. Her breath smelled of the strong aromatic coffee, and her lips of the burnt cigarette. Intense and lustful, as if someone had unlocked the hunger inside us. Every touch, every caress and every glance in between the switchovers were like fireworks.
I rolled off her, and splayed out over the crumpled bedsheets, staring blankly to the ceiling, which had cracked like a river system — plastered over several times, like a healed scar. We were silent for a long time. She snuggled and wrapped herself around me while I lit a smoke.
The dusky cityscape was lucent. It started raining.
I woke up at 7 in the morning, took a shower, made some coffee. Faint sounds floated in, traffic and voices of the early-goers. The sun was up in distant azure. She was still sleeping, her arms juxtaposed, head tilted sideways.
After some-time, she got up yawning and stretching, with a warm smile. We hugged, and I could feel a sense of care. I felt my heart sink, a dilatory descend of emptiness inside, as the final Au Revoir was there.
We often equivocate our feelings, which to me is not in best interest sometimes. After all what will you gain, having a conversation in private.
