Again.

An old jewish proverb says that someone who reads a book, can not cry. But on some days, neither a book nor an old jewish saying helps. Today is one of those.

Storm

In the early hours of the morning I wake up. 3 AM says the clock. But what does a number know at all? Deep and dark is night and the wind blows so strong that the branches of the big old tree are cracking as if they were matches to lit a cigarette. The storm has arrived. As a big massive lad, who carries a whip in his right hand and now leashes out as long as he likes to do. A patient man he is. Strong willed and with no mercy for the trees, hedges, flower-pots and bird’s nests he stands there considering himself superior.
Even the old lantern, flicker only weak as if out of breath. Of an old book, my grandmother read to me when I was a child I think. I can’t remember his title and have no idea, who the author might have been. But I still remember as if it was just yesterday, the colorful pictures and my fascination of them. Particularly one story sticks with me, a tale of storm and tempest. Two children, a boy and a girl, both well- dressed in a duffle coat or some similar kind of cloak, climbed during one stormy afternoon on the window sill, held each other with their hands, opened two umbrellas and off they went, carried by a storm as heavy and strong as I noticed last night. The girl lost her hat, the boy, a shoe, but both git red cheeks and excited eyes, as they went over villages and twins, crossed the sea, some mountains, a desert and much more things I in the meantime all forgot. But last night I thought of them and wished, I could as well open an umbrella and the storm would open his arms to carry me far, far away to another, brighter place. But instead, the clock said 4 AM by then, I went back into bed and listened further to the storm and before I fell into sleep again I watched out, if a boy and girl, both with their umbrellas wide open, would appear for a short while in front of my window before being carried away, further and further into a future still unknown.

The Wednesday Man

D. sighs deeply, when I enter the café. “I am so sorry D”. try I to cheer her up, but the bus, but D. just sighs again and waves dismissively, “you are always too late.” Unfortunately this is true, I always run, but always run late, but fortunately D. does not sigh because of me. D.’s calamity has deeper roots. Every morning, from Monday to Friday, D. hops on the DART to get into town. Pretty is D. tall, in opposite to me, D. is one of those women, who never, ever would wear pink nail polish to yellow shoes as I do, and D. does not only have hair but always has a hairstyle, in other ways wherever D. enters,she gains attraction. D. is very well aware of this fact. But after her companion of many years left her two years ago, to find his inner self in California or so, Eros was not kind to D. and always turned away when she wanted so urgently to get hold of him. But then on a certain Wednesday, a man got on the DART and D. who looked out of the window, where not much of interest tends to happen, early in the morning and immediately was struck by his appearance. The man looked like a younger brother of Apollo. Tall and slim, a well groomed beard, horn-rimmed glasses, stylish sneakers to an expensive suit. Probably Drykorn, says D. No briefcase. D. pretending to check her e-mails on her phone, examined the man closely, took a second, a third and a fourth look and decided that this could become a compensation for the disastrous end of her last relationship. In the following days, D. dressed up even more careful, wore her hair loose, because D. knows very well, that her blonde curls let her look like fairy of breathtaking beauty, but all her efforts were for free, the beautiful men, was not to be spotted on the train. A long week, D. had to wait till on a Wednesday, he again made his appearance. Budapest shoes, a dark- blue Barbour jacket, the man smiling inwardly, D. short to breathless, but also exhausted from a week of unsuccessful efforts. Maybe, but this is not for sure, her pink skirt a bit crinkled. The men read the news,watched carefully by D. to catch his eyes when he was about to turn over the pages. Their eyes met, D. smiled a smile that could make people faint, but the men yawned and went over to the business news. D. devastated by now. But D. would not be D. if simply giving up. In the following weeks similar scenarios repeated each other on every single Wednesday, but so far without any success. D. even went so far to drop her keys right in front of his shoes, and the g*d like man, friendly stepped back, but made no efforts to pick up the keys himself. But for approximately four seconds D. could hear his voice and heard the angels sing, what made up, his obviously non existent gentlemen manners. From Thursday to Wednesday, D. now thinks about the beautiful stranger constantly. Last week, she told me she remained on the DART to see, where the man gets off the train, but two minutes after she left the train behind him, she had lost sight of him in the crowd. “What do you think Read On”, she sighs now for the fifth time, “what shall I do?” “And what does he do, from Wednesday to Tuesday?”