Nurse the Hate: Hate The Winds

I don’t know what it was about her.  She had that smug satisfaction that can only come from an upper class extremely liberal background.  She saw the world as the place she wanted it to be as opposed to how it was, as if she could will away unpleasant experiences.  She had walked through favelas in Rio without a scratch wearing Nike workout gear that cost more than most of these people had earned in the last two years.  Petite and naive is a combination that is almost like having a karmic protective shield.  It’s a childlike Zen.  

If it was 1922, she would have been a “socialite”.  That word now tends to mean “performs oral sex in dance clubs and limos” but it once meant an active patron of the arts and proper educated woman.  It was that Zelda Fitzgerald quality that probably made me start speaking to her like she was at the Café de Flore slowly stirring a small spoon in an espresso.

“The winds…  The winds…. They drove him quite mad.”

What?

“Gerald.  He went mad.  He admitted himself to Gallmore for The Treatment.  He’s quite mad.”

Who’s Gerald?

“The author my dear…  He wrote those wonderful poems about death.  Surely you went to his reading?  No matter…  They say he slipped away at daybreak.  In tears.  He was quite shattered.  The howling of The Winds were too much for his fragile constitution.”

Wait… Your friend is sick?  Because it was windy this weekend?

“Oh, he goes mad quite often.  He will take The Waters and I suspect will be in Marseilles by Summer.  He always summers there with the Widow Schmidt.  He believes her to be his muse.  It’s nonsense of course.  They just drink pastis and argue about those vulgar sculptures left by Catalano.  It’s unfortunate.”

What are you talking about?

“It’s nothing to concern yourself with dear.  A woman of your stature must not concern herself with such creatures as Gerald.  Now, tell me of your plans…  Will you be attending the gala at the Flynn?”

I don’t know what you are talking about.  I am getting my tea and getting out of here.

“Of course my child!  Of course!  Do not let my rambling on about Gerald weigh you down!”

She walked away with a look of pure confusion. 

   

This is the situation I find myself in, trapped inside my runaway imagination and near constant boredom.  I walked out to my car.  The salt from the roads covered it almost completely in a gray film.  A small patch rubbed off on my black coat.  I thought to myself “What an awful business.  To have this coat soiled is almost too much to bear.  And the winds… the winds….”.  I started the car and drove past a string of chain restaurants and box stores.