Hot European Lover Nihilist
“Nothing,” he answered, “nothing at all.”
“I want to know it, your nothing,” I said. (“Je le veux connaitre, votre rien.”)
“Because I think there is more in your nothing than there is in all of their ‘something’ put together.” (I’m an impulse buyer, and an impulse faller-in-love. I was already completely devoted to the gloomy Belgian, ready to leave my husband and my lovers to be nearer his silence.)
“Give me your drink,” I said. But he wouldn’t. “I’m just a little rabbit,” I said, “I won’t drink much.”
“And I,” he said, “I am a wolf.”
“Good, drink it all yourself. You will die and I won’t. I hope you die quickly.”
“You are not a rabbit,” he said. “You are a dog. You make me laugh. I ridicule you.”
I danced away and later wrote him a note; it said (in French): “I am drunk. I don’t always dance. If you knew me, you would love me.” I gave it to him and went outside. He found me, linked his leg with mine, friendly.
He said, “I love your accent. I love your energy for life.”
I said, “I hate you.”
He said, “I think it is unfortunate for you to have met me.” I laughed. He laughed too, and then he said, “I love you.” That made me laugh again. He kissed me, but it wasn’t rough like I thought it would be. It felt like it feels when I fall down and get hurt. Then he left me.
I remember the rest of the night in little pieces: his girlfriend crying; him throwing her out of the bar; her kissing me on the forehead, saying she forgave me; my fingers bleeding; him kneeling on the floor over a broken bottle with snot dripping and then his fingers dripping blood too . . . how did that happen? And then his blood fingerprints were all over my arms. I tried to give him a glass of water and he said, “I want to be destroyed. I don’t want your help.” There’s nothing I would mind destroying, including him. I could do that. I could live in Belgium with him and become a thief. I could die at his feet, I could kiss his palm. I love his energy for life. Some other girl threw a glass at Jean Louis (these Belgians are wild!) because she didn’t like the show. She attacked me and bit my shoulder until it bled. I scratched her neck and kneed her in the groin. Another girl grabbed me and we danced. When it was almost morning he and I were alone and he said, “What do you want? What do you want? I want nothing from you, nothing. I am nothing, and I think nothing. I have nothing for you. I want more. You don’t understand. I want more.” He was very drunk and trying to focus. He was trying to tell someone (me) what he had thought about violently and secretly when sober. I watched his pinched, cut features. I wanted him to spit on me, kick me, I wanted to kick him it would make me happy, it would be the same as smiling at me, because it’s him. My love for him is without pride, without ego, without morals, without logic, without hope, without restraint. It’s not even love it’s abandon.
Lisa Carver and Nerve.com, Inc.