Pleasure Dome (4/x)

~a kaleidoscope of fiction~

Nota Bene: Several have written me to ask whether (or rather, acknowledge that) they, indeed!, are Oskar. Rest assured Oskar is a man of flesh and blood, and he is not, sweet friend, you or you. Oskar is Oskar.

A few have asked oh! when will I write about them (all in due course, my sweet, a hidden gem).

Others have demanded, what really happened in the hotel? That question made me giggle, I admit, because the hope had been so hopeful. Mine too, and good things come to...

Focusing again, to keep the present Nota Bene curtailed (contained!) at least somewhat: this installment may not be such a *turn on* for some.

But then, I say, I must work through what my mind and memories serve me up so I will shine anew. Make it new!

***

Over the last 13 months, versions of the following scene play out in my mind, on my messaging app, in my dreams.

Narrator: (addressing the reader directly, Fleabag style, that’s me!) Oskar, remember that poem you recited to me on New Year’s Eve at high noon, the two of us in the dusty poetry room and you wearing your sunglasses and your Leonard Cohen attitude?

Oskar: [silence]

Narrator: I do, I remember. It was beautiful and the way you looked at me while you spoke the words… I couldn’t see your eyes behind your dark shades, but I could feel your gaze and it was spectacular. You had me hooked in.

Oskar: [silence]

Narrator: And yes, I am so desperate for the attention of a so-called brilliant man. (Again addressing the reader directly and asking for their moral support with my eyes while pleading, inevitably, with my silent interlocutor) That’s you, Oskar! That’s you.

Oskar: [silence]

Narrator: I will send you an audio of me reading a poem to you… Not that you care if I am here or there or nowhere at all. What do you care, Oskar. You cut yourself out from this exchange. You refuse to play this game. What’s wrong with this game. You leave me holding all the cards. This is no fun.

Oskar: [silence]

Narrator: Argh. And this is why my mother always said…

***

Oskar has nothing to tell me. Or he might want to tell me precisely everything and does not know where to begin so he says nothing. Or he leaves it to me so he can see what I will do with no inputs from his person or his overall apparatus. It’s the opposite of a forcing function. We’re on flaccid terrain here.