a well-organized soul Notes: The product of too much Salinger. Therefore, it's pretty wild. Honestly, I don't like this one too much... Z. gets on the metro at P. City heading south to Vienna. She has exhausted herself on this windy day with hours and hours of shopping; she believes in Christmas presents in July and birthday presents months after the actual date. She is a well-organised soul, but the poor dear, how she does tire herself out. Thank the stars it's not packed, is her first thought on the carpeted floor of the middle compartment. Usually around six the metro is jammed with corporate businessmen; teenagers; women hiding in scarves and dainty umbrellas from the summer sun. She picks a red seat by the window. The blue seat next to her is empty, and she quickly hides it with her multitude of bags. Over and over she recites the list in her head to the tempo of the train's steady throbbing: breakfast this morning with Yves, and then shopping 'til noon for the holiday (in five months). And then back to Vienna, to meet Yves at the door for dinner. And then dinner, wherever they please--and then what? Z.'s list ends there. A very short list, but she thinks it has been a very productive day. Her hands protectively latch onto her shopping as the door opens at C. City; she gives stoic glares to the rush of people in the car who are looking for seats. "May I?" asks a middle-aged woman in bright violet. Z. shakes her head empathetically. "I'm saving," is all she says. The woman looks clearly affronted and stalks off rudely, for she does not believe that Z. is saving the seat. In fact, however, she is saving a seat for someone who is not wearing bright violet and lilac lipstick. The bags rest in peace. But Z. gets the awful impression that they are giggling at her, like the high school girls in their feral packs. The metro rumbles on and the monotone voice of the woman announcing the stop keeps on interrupting Z.'s plans. Yves was distant this morning, even when the waitress brought out the coffee and biscuits. Z. felt quite lonely, and she never does during breakfast with Yves, with the exception of today. She would have asked him what was wrong: did a model quit? the sewing machines break down? are they making you find a new name? But she asked nothing, because Yves does not answer questions. He speaks in them, instead. Z. likes this about him, although on the odd occasion she wishes he could act normal and actually answer things. Brmmp. Brmmmp. Brrmmp. The throbbing ebbs on. A burgundy cashmere scarf hangs sadly out of one of the bags. Z. glares at it, but it only sways with the tumbling of the metro. At the next stop she tucks it in and whips out her cellular phone in an attempt to make the new riders ignore her and the mountain of shopping next to her. She reads text messages from today and yesterday, even though she has memorised them all already because they are from Yves. They are all in questions, except for when he forgets and he ends in periods. 'Dinner?' is the first. Yesterday, at 2:57 PM. While Z. was trying to avoid Yves after he confronted her about the diary. 'No dinner then?' is the second. Yesterday, at 3:10 PM. After Z. finally got the courage to reply ('I don't know'). 'I'll call' is the third and final of yesterday, at 4:00 PM. A very delayed and chilly response from Yves, who is usually punctuate and affectionate. Today's texts are a jumble of questions about breakfast and shopping, and Yves' new line of shoes and whether or not he should take an extra hour at work or leave it to Kitty, the girl he depends on (Z. forgot her actual title long ago). The list runs a total of 77 messages, which is a hefty amount for Z. How she even answered them all is a wonder. She pockets her cell phone ruefully and is notified by the monotonous woman that this is the last stop, Vienna, and please do not leave any of your personal belongings on the train. Standing up, Z. gathers her many a bag and departs the metro, tottering on new heels, a test line of Yves'. Dinner now, she thinks kindly to herself as she rides the escalator up to the lobby. To the lobby door, then dinner somewhere, and then what? Perhaps Yves has an idea. Her ankles are aching very badly. She'll have to rub ointment on them when she gets in the car. Luckily she has a tube in her purse. Z. is a well-organised soul, but the poor dear. How she does tire herself out. back