Writing the First Chapter of Something. Not clear what yet.

Chapter 1

There is something about expressions. It’s something around the feeling that you remember something, and you can’t put your finger on it.

But, never the less, it’s there. It’s where there are no conditions or requirements. Memories. They do not as anything out of you, they know you so well; and they are there, just waiting for you to see them. If only.

Looking at a fence, an unused door, a window, a mug, a place, a stage of light, at something that will bring them back to you. To home.

It was just like any other day at work. Chores; solving problems, talking with the ocasional costumer slash viewer. Standing there doing your job, and at the same time walking out of you to be somewhere else.

It was the same room where I was the day before and so other day. But this time was meant to be different. And without me knowing it. That was the beauty in it.

No windows, no door, but just the hallways that only brought the expectation of what face you will see next and then never remember, what face you will forget as soon as the next one arrives. Well, as it is, it was. The next face in this tale I have long forgotten, but not the words.

‘A lady has told us that she left her bag in the wardrobe and she is missing “something”‘ (I don’t remember what).

Everything stopped in that moment. Not the moment after she told me that bit somehow in between words. Maybe after ‘a lady’, who knows.

It was unusual that someone was coming to talk to you during work hours. And if so happen to be the case, it was with a meaning for something. Even if was a question as: Where are you next of? or, Do you like this pencil? or, Did you stole something out of a ladies bag in your shift in the wardrobe?

All questions were kind of simple to answer, as yes or no, or a location, hour or name. But, somehow this question wasn’t easy. Not because my answer wasn’t going to be out of the expected or the kind that you are trained to answer to. It was because the question had been made. Just as asking someone in the morning “how are you?” or in the afternoon for that matter. Or every now and then, questions are made. But… what about the answer? Is there questions about an answer?

Sometimes answers are nothing but an ice cream melting under the sun waiting to be seen by someone. Just as the truth and my grandma’s panties. No one want to see them, but we both know she wears a pair. But this is the tricky part: does she?

The answer to that question (not about the panties) was easy layer out. NO. No, no I did not took ANYTHING. What, what is missing in her bag?

And of course, th answer to that response was… no expected, but logical in way.

‘I (we) know, we just had to ask’.

There was nothing in between, there was not anything else to it, no reclaims. Nothing. That was it. Just the question. For them at least.

For me, it was the beginning of a walk out of the place where I was standing everyday as a fact. It was the beginning of a memory long forgotten arriving to smile to me in the face.


One thought on “Writing the First Chapter of Something. Not clear what yet.

  1. like a lot the rhythm of it, how it turns and keeps turning back to that point maybe after ‘the lady’. That moment where the smile of the memory already caught-cut you by the throat.

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