They stopped in front of the bar on Gumpendorferstrasse, opposite to an Asian ramien place that purportedly owns an underground club with peculiar Asian decorations. Well, it's true. Amelia was there one time with a male friend, who commented that her tight knee-length skirt made her look overly mature, almost seductive, as they were sitting in awkward vicinity to one another. She was uneased by the indication while trying to maintain good judgement in the interference of alcohol that's reinforced by the dimly-lit environment. She barely noticed the interior design.
The black sign of the bar that wrote IF DOGS RUN FREE was rendered almost invisible by the darkness of the night that seemed to be stretching into eternity. One could tell from outside that it was packed inside, but would nevertheless have the desire to take a chance. They pushed open the heavy door, and a different world unveiled in front of them in plain sight. Amelia didn't know where that name came from; could be from the Bob Dylan song. The smell of late-night people in convenient constellation of pairs permeated the room that's not spacious enough for any dog to run free. Amelia inspected the room with preoccupation, then said, ''do you mind if we go to another place?'' ''Sure, but why?'' It was about one and a half years ago, when Amelia made yet another attempt to talk to Sam about their situation. They met in a bar near Sam's office after work on a Friday, and ran into a whole bunch of colleagues of his. It then turned into a purely socializing event, which culminated in the collective decision of going to eat Chinese food together. They took the metro to Gumpendorferstrasse, and had a late dinner in a popular place around ten. The crowd had its charm, but Amelia was not exactly in the mood for forging friendship that would last no longer than a night. One or two of the guys took special interest in her after she made up a historic story about a painting hanging on the wall. Amelia found their gullibility amusing. After dinner, Amelia reminded Sam that they still needed to talk. They walked by IF DOGS RUN FREE, and Sam opened the door without consulting her. She always thought it was an arbitrary choice. It was as full as this time around, and they only found stools at the high table by the wall. They ordered cocktails that tasted like sadness, like the taste of everything when she was around Sam. Sam sipped his drink as Amelia accused him of everything that he did wrong. Neither did he agree, nor disagree. He waited patiently till Amelia vented all her angers and pains, and a trace of laughter crawled back onto her face. There were less and less people in the bar, so they moved to a proper table but still sat side by side. At the other end of the row of tables, a couple were kissing as if no one was around. Sam made a remark, ''we should show them how to kiss''. Amelia stopped attempting after a few more times, when she finally made peace with the fact that some problems are simply not to be solved. Time is the answer; that's what she learned over time. Its fair treatment of the good and the bad has the amazing effects of both equalizing and tranquilizing. If it was not for the chill of nostalgia that stroke her the moment she stepped into IF DOGS RUN FREE for the second time, this part of her memory would lie dormant for as long as it needs to. But of course, she didn't elucidate the matter in such details just because it was requested. True love needs no company It can cure the soul, it can make it whole If dogs run free She said goodbye to her companion of the evening without feeling particularly sentimental, or even with a sense of relief. It's all just part of the journey, isn't it?
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He thought, as he was driving to work. The Vivaldi on the radio did not manage to cheer him up. It took him exactly 23 minutes every day, regardless of how many red traffic lights he would run into. He hated this type of predictability. He never knew when's the rush hour in this town, if there was any. The weather was dull but the sky was clear. He was hoping to see the sun, then contradicted himself because it would be an even greater suffering to see the sun only from indoors.
He felt incredibly tired, but then he couldn't remember how it felt not to be tired. So maybe he was not as tired as he believed. He went into the first meeting with his brain half shut. He did not know what exactly the meeting was supposed to be about, but was certain that it was not going anywhere meaningful. His colleagues came in with uplifting morning greetings and handshakes and talked about the school plans of their kids. He smiled agreeably, and in his head kept playing flashbacks from the time when he was a volunteer in New Delhi. How the air smelled like a mixture of smog and curry, how he had diarrhea for the first consecutive days and wasn't even too bothered, and how some evenings at sunset he and other volunteers would sit together in a park, playing guitar and singing old pop songs. That was the only time when he was comfortable to play and sing in front of a crowd. His youthful years full of possiblities, he reflected reminiscently. The presentation on the screen had an irritatingly predictable template. He thought his job had something to do with innovation and creativity. The moderator started reading out the agenda, and he put his mind to sleep, as if he was in an annoying French class that never taught past the basics. He did have something to say, but then he felt his opinion would not make much of a difference, so he kept it to himself. At lunch, he picked the only vegetarian option, pasta with tomato sauce, that did not taste like anything. He watched the people around him as if they were mummies from this TV show, the name of which he could hardly remember. The only certainty is that, they're all gonna die, if not already. When the afternoon sun leaked through the window with its infectious warmth, he felt somewhat reassured of his solitary existence. He drank his black coffee, and arduously stared at his computer screen with his drying eyes. Eyes are a metaphor for life. Both are drying. Both are dying. The office was emptied out with an unnecessary sense of urgency at an early hour. It was still bright outside. He put on his jacket slowly, and felt a thrill that he was leaving the grey office building. But where to? The trip to Tehran in two months? To his parents in his hometown on the weekend? To the rented apartment that he dreaded? ''I'm gonna leave this place soon.'' He thought, not without hope. |
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