Flowers on a floating grave

" Why can’t I just be like everyone else?"

“Then you will just feel numb”

That was what Peter had said to me whilst I fussed over him and overloaded him with bread, humus, coffee and just my general philosophies. We sat at my green and white vintage table, which had of course only became vintage because of some amateur painting accident. So, there I sat with the strangest dinner guest I could possibly hope to find, and I wondered what could possibly be going on inside his head. If my friends had found out that I invited him over I would never hear the end of it. I could see his dark green eyes sucking in every corner of the room, and his dark red mane of hair seemed to be on fire. His skin was slightly red, unkept, but refreshingly masculine. Would he try to seduce me, like other guests have? Was I scared this time? Why did I invite him over? What if he really was a nut ? But by now I had learned to listen to my heart. It profits you, you know, to stay away from overt brain and genital usage.

"Apparently I am addicted to rejection. A girl started taking my pants off and I told her to stop and go away. I regretted it afterwards. "

Right. How many self - confessed masochists can exist in one beautiful little town ? A great number it seemed. I drank more coffee and secretly suspected whisky could solve all of this. The sun had now rolled away and the trees outside looked at me glumly and accusingly through the window. Their fancy branches seemed to point long bony fingers at me. Even the river was running away. Some things are lucky, they never stop moving. I looked at my eccentric friend. He looked back at Nicole Kidman, who I apparently resemble. No wonder it felt like I was acting out a scene of The Hours. The phone rang. A ridiculously happy voice was on the other end of the line. A cat was screaming for love in the backround, 14 000 miles away. This voice was the light of my life. Peter glanced away politely whilst I babbled to my personal jesus. Yes, I decided he had a Roman vibe about him, I was glad he was going to study Latin for the rest of his life. I envied his simplicity, crazy as it was.

“Hey Peter, my cousin is going to work at Water World in the East. Wanna go join him?” We laughed at the thought of two eccentric artists as ourselves being in charge of large masses of squirting water. I would wreck the place in ten golden minutes. Peter would crumble it slowly, knowingly. But we weren’t entirely allergic to the idea. The beauty, intrigue and monotony of our expensive little town was becoming a tomb. We weren’t being destroyed but we wanted to destroy. But I knew Peter would stay. And that I would go. But he would gladly look after the town for me and intrigue and puzzle the locals for me. Right now, he could be blowing up the sun. Or slicing it into quarters with his sword.