We have a conversation about blue crystal. Without so much of a warning sign, I take off my trousers and show her the hole in my cheap Wal-Mart's George boxers. I stick a finger in: "wear and tear," I say. I put in another finger and I abruptly tear the grey fabric apart. "There," I say, "you see my ass. It's probably the only part of my body that I find remotely attractive. I live with the daily fear that it will lose its round firmness someday. And you see my penis. It's small, eh? I compensate by telling myself I am intelligent. And you see those hairs here? I hate them, but they keep growing. And look at my black-spaghetti legs, not very glamorous, are they?..."
Not so much as a nervous laugh... This is how, naked, I show her all the imperfections in my body, all those bits and pieces that I conveniently cover with a confident strut, layers of make-up and silky facades.
It's with my imperfect nudity that I tell her of my Sunday evening blues. I tell her of the haunting sadness of my Sunday nights, of the broken melancholia and whole loneliness, of the pieces of blue crystal over my thick lenses, of the voices in my head stressing over and over again, and going through what the coming week ought to be, will be, should be, had better be... I tell her about my earliest memories, my childhood and how they are covered in blue crystal too. I recollect with vivid nostalgia the Sunday nights, the crystal-blue gloom of having to face yet another week.
"Is it strange, that even my earliest memories are impregnated with the Sunday evening blues?" I ask her.
She remains silent and kisses me with love. Just her lips, and mine, my face in her hands and her silent language.
I go back home, send her a note telling her it is just the Sunday evening blues, that I am making a cuppa tea and that I will spend the rest of the evening reading in my couch. Deep inside, she feels the boiling taste of orange pekoe tea on her tongue and she knows it is just the Sunday evening blues, the constant replaying of the coming week in my head, the crystal-blue voices... Deep inside she also knows that I miss my French lover, and that I will sink in my couch and read the Sunday secrets over at PostSecret thinking: I might have to send a crystal-blue card too...