28 March 2008

Her name was Swearingen...

I met her in a wine bar in Budapest. Truth be told I was looking for a talented Spanish or Argentinean wine to bring back to the Corinthia Grand. Funny place to look though, Hungary. I had the Danube to my left. That was my only landmark. My hotel was on the Buda side, knew that much. I met Swearingen on Pest side. But we'll get to that later on. But I suppose before we move on I should mention Andrassy Boulevard, whats left of it anyway. Unfortunately the nazi's destroyed most of Budapest. The Hungarians love a good floodlight. Budapest after dark is breathtaking. Or maybe it was Swearingen's hips. Either way, something was stealing my breath and I searched for a place to rest my head until I got it sorted. It'd be a little while until Swearingen found her way from the Matyas

I'm sitting in this disgustingly adorable little tapas cafe on Andrassy, rolling my eyes because the couple sitting next to me are passionately discussing altars and pulpits made by Bosnian Franciscan monks in the 17th century. I'm nursing my second American coffee waiting for Swearingen to saunter through that door like a length of billowing silk. She'll walk in the door and her spirit will trail behind her. She'll be right in front of me, seated, holding my hands to warm hers all the while her sugary aura is still flowing through the door and rushing up to meet her body like a startled remora. I'd have my head down and I'd listen every time the door would open but I never looked up. I never had to. I only looked up once because that time I knew it was her. It was as if I could feel her soul entering my atmosphere. Just me and Swearingen at this disgustingly adorable little tapas cafe on Andrassy.

We shared her last Djarum Black, and with the Danube to our left we pulled up our wool collars and walked blindly into the Hungarian night. I had a bottle of Argentinean red under my right arm with my right hand in my pocket I was fiddling with some coins. They felt like American coins. I was trying to trace the faces on the coin with my index finger. I thought I felt Thomas Jefferson's ponytail but I wasn't sure. I flipped it over and tried to see if I could make out his Virginian estate, Monticello. This took serious concentration.

Swearingen lead the way. She was spirited and happy. We hadn't seen each other in quite some time and for once I knew where the night was going and it felt good. All I wanted to do was lay down with the billowing blinds, open up a bottle of Leonard Cohen and put on my Argentinean Malbec 45's.

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