We Will Clap Hands No More

 

Part one 

 

I was walking down the street when I realized something was hung up my head. It felt like a halo, even if, it never happened to me to be an angelic creature. I raised my hand up my head but nothing was there: it was just a heavy piece of air over me.

I kept walking, I put my earbuds in, listen to some of the new stuff that was on the market. Awful. But trends needed to be supported. I felt a click. “Francis B. connected to your podcast” said a voice. Less the five seconds. “Sam G. shared your picture”.  I looked up.

Oh, I must have been completely wasted to neglect how the world looked like in those times. I sat on a slippery bench (or was my ass the slippery one). In front of me, there was someone that looked like a lady. I could not see her Cloud over the head. I zoomed. Still blurry. A bit more. Great.

A Cloud not bigger than twice her head was graphically reporting stuff about her: She was not a she. But the Cloud was quoting one of the lady’s blogs: ‘she felt herself as a she’.  She was a Scorpion. She ‘liked cheddar as bears honey’. Single. Officially unemployed. She had 134 followers on Facebook. 820 on Instagram. Just 40 on Twitter. She did not use Snapchat, Tumblr or others. She used Spotify instead of Youtube. She did not like Netflix because lacking Japanese material, which she favored. 

 

Bizarre. I looked down. I opened my hand, faced my palm. Start reading the news of the day. Dead people. Murdered people. Missing people. Etc etc. I turned the page bending the tip of my fingers. Facebook home. Once again. My Instagram’s profile. I scrolled my pictures down with the thumb of the same hand. I was looking at those pictures bored and a bit ashamed of myself. I was saying in my head: “me looking rich. Me looking skinny. Me looking smart. Me looking a gangsta”. Me being bored. I stood up. That walking-outside-to-enjoy-the-sun was useless. I did not even know where I was going. I went back home.

 

On the train, my Cloud rang a bit. That kind of ring was a Wapa message. Some dyke next to me. It said 300 meters. Probably the next wagon. I rolled my eyes. I didn’t know why but I had the feeling she was a Dieseldyke. I did not need that. I waited for the next stop. Lowering my gaze, I entered the next wagon. Sat on an empty spot. Open my hand and start scrolling a short story published on Harper’s Magazine three decades ago. Waited for her to come. Two pages and I could catch a fat figure with the corner of the eye. I smelled her existence, and my heart started beating crazily. She was a fat I liked: elegant and well-proportioned. I smiled at her, feigning shyness. She murmured a laugh and sat next to me. She smelled Candy by Prada (probably the H&M version of it). She kissed me on the neck, right behind my small ear. “How many stations do you have?”, she asked me. “I have people over, let us go to yours.”. Three stations after we got off the train and I followed her back silently since we reach the edge of the bed. I needed that. 

 

 

Part two 

 

I woke up in the library where I went the same morning to study something. I got out of the main room, walked in the direction of the lockers, opened my food bag, ate some freeze-dried food. Chemicals were my fav addiction. I felt shit. It was late afternoon. I needed some fresh air. I did not want to walk outside. I am photophobic when nervous. I opened my hand and scrolled down the ‘neo-neo-neo-trends’. It was trendy by then, to possess such things no one could get, even if they were trying their best. For instance, there was no point of considering trendy a pair of jeans. Mostly anyone with financial resources could get them, cheap labels could repeat them. So, no point. No exclusiveness. Differently, things that were really exclusive were super-cool. Like cellulite and stretch marks. Some bitches were going to make-up salons in other to get them on the skin, but you could tell they were fake. And this made them losers. I had cellulite and stretch marks. I was kind of cool.

 

 

 

 

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