what is it you have to tell me?

It's the middle of February. A little ladybird has just crawled up one of the electric cables which leads to my computer. Beautiful red against black. She's come all that way to see me. She is still very small and has only two tiny black dots on her red body. One on each side.

Now you're walking across my screen. Six little busy legs, two trembling antennae and a white spot on each side of your head.

I wonder who sent you. When I was a little girl I was told that every ladybird had a secret to tell me.

solitude

You were talking to someone sitting opposite you, on the other side of the table. There were a lot of exciting things you had to say. Your mind was very crowded. Very busy. You talked about the past as you waved a hand over your shoulder. You talked about the present as you pointed your finger across the table. You put your hand through your hair when a whisper of weariness blew over you, and poured yourself another glass of wine. Every now and again, you paused and smiled, lit another cigarette and listened carefully to what he had to say.

Only there was no he.
There was no one.
Not a soul sitting opposite you.
Whoever it was had left years ago.

more solitude

You came crashing into the café. Wild hair, wild gestures, dressed like a man who had been out hunting all night. You had been a woman once. But now there was no softness left in you. The little girl you had once been must be huddling somewhere in a dark corner with jagged edges. You threw your arms in the air, screaming over and over again "the meaning of words" "the meaning of words". All these words which had done so much harm to you.

and he takes up precious space

He sat all evening with his back to her, talking to her husband. He called her husband by his name. She was referred to as 'your wife'. That inert mass that was sitting by his side. He never tried to integrate her into the conversation. The thought that a woman could have any had never occurred to him. Women were things with holes that he filled when he felt an urge between his legs. A blonde with large breasts if possible. He invited her husband over and over again to join him in his rich life of gin&tonics, easy women, long nights, smoke, dope, money and senselessness. 'Just the two of us. Between men.' Meaningful chuckle. Sniff. Swallow phlegm. Suck in nicotine. Throw head back. Purse lips.
I am life.
I am fun.
I am it.

The poor git.

the man who never finishes his sentences (where i like to buy my rings)

"Yes, the colour goes very well with... You understand the shape of the ring... How you wear it. It all has to do with... A kind of aura... Venetian you understand... They know the art of glass... Because glass is... They polish it... You can feel the shape... Better than resin for instance because resin... You stop... Your fingers stop... you stop. You can't do otherwise when you're.... You see. And the colours too... The gold in there which is of the ....hmmm.... They are... They are the glass... They know what is feminine... hmmm... It's all in ... Yes."

the woman who can't stop saying sentences (where i like to buy my bracelets)

"They all want that colour my customers. And I tell my distributors that my clients want that colour. But it makes no difference; they send me 2 of this colour and 3 of that colour. Because, you understand, you can't choose. Well they do do favours for me because I've been a client for so long. I was one of their first clients in fact. I've been buying these kettles ever since I opened my shop. Which is almost 10 years ago now. How time flies... Sigh. The pink kettles with poppies. These are the ones everyone wants. Naturally, because they already have their pink cups and saucers. They want to make a set. They don't want to buy a kettle with dots if their cups have poppies painted on them. Do they? And all my clients are the same. They need a set. I won't be asking them for any more kettles though because these ones don't switch off automatically. Which is no good. Imagine an elderly woman - or a man - forgetting their kettle and going out. To the cinema or for some bread. And they come home to a kitchen which has gone on fire. Or worse: their appartment. So I won't be ordering anymore of these kettles to answer your question. No..."

rearranging reality

Every morning he crouches over the newspaper, pushing a magnifying glass along the sentences and muttering every word he reads. It takes him all morning to get through the day's news. Once he has reached the very last word on the last page, he takes a pair of scissors out of his coat pocket and carefully cuts out letters which he places in a row front of him. He then spends the afternoon sorting them with the tips of his fingers, putting them into an order which makes sense to him.