17 pages somethere else

From 78 to 95.
It's Pamuk. Pamuk calmed me down last night.
And last night was such a great night. Oh, how it was.
And how it was such a shame that you weren't there.
You were somethere else. You wanted to be there. Just couldn't.
I can understand could not. I don't understand can not, but could not, that I can.

The wine was good. They only have it dry there, the rose from the dame sprang out of Brîncuși's miss.
The laughter was on. The jokes and the conversation always in need of fine tuning, which is always reassuring.
The boys were there. You know when someone wants your attention. I know you know. And how it's nice to know that they want your attention... an eye caught. a glance. a toss. a turn. a curl. And how it's nice to know that you give them nothing.

Because you don't want them. You want me. Me wants you. So you show them beautiful ignorance, like a bliss. You show them the finger. The one with the ring on. Discreet, almost like a tip toe. You laugh at their need. You don't mock. You just enjoy. You were once in their shoes. But no longer are.

So you go home. You boil a teapot. You wash your eyes and mouth. You text. You write. You call. You pray. You text. You Paris. You Pamuk. You go to sleep. With the little shiny lights that shine a lot on the bed-wall thing.
17 pages of good melancholia can really get you into deep sleeping. We should go back to Istanbul soon, babe.