We shook hands. “I’m Alexis.” “I’m Ishmael.” “Ah, I know a sea pirate named Ishmael.” “And I know a shoplifter named Alexis.” I could see you were high. I saw crumbs of muffin on your bed in our hostel room. I had my own cake so I guessed we’re even. No one needs to be clearheaded in Amsterdam.
You have a tattoo of a moustache on your index finger. A fingerstache, that’s the popular term. You like to pretend to have a real one by putting your finger between your nose and your lips. I was impressed, that’s a good one. I wondered how many girls can be bewildered by a perfect combination of that tattoo and a good pick up lines. “Hey, do you want to see my cute fingerstache?” That’s shitty. We both laughed talking about that.
You said you’re going to move in to Pacific when the days are warmer. We both need those cheap downers. I need hallucinations. You need paralysers. We both want to be deeply intoxicated and totally wasted. You thought about having new tattoos but didn’t know yet what’s going to be the pattern. You said you need aspirations.
We slept under the same roof of a cramped room and a two-story bed for few days in a hostel called Orfeo, within a short walk to the Leidseplein. I took the upper bed since “I have a crisis on my balance,” quoted directly from you. I was heading back to the North first thing in a morning. I left you sleeping with your mysterious one-eyed black stuffed toy bear. No kiss no hugs no goodbye. We both don’t need that. I don’t need that.
Well I thought you didn’t need that. Until a knock on my door after a couple of months. I opened it. Standing there, a guy with a tattoo of a moustache on his index finger is smiling and say, “I bet your real name is not Alexis. But anyway, wanna see my new tattoo of your fake name?” “That’s the best pick-up lines I’ve ever heard.” And we both laughed again.
Reading my mind, finally you said, “I’m sorry I’ve tracked you down. I got addicted to aspirations.”
Jena
