When Boredom Creeps In
Rita lifted her exhausted, aching eyes from her copy of
History of Western Philosophy,
feeling as if a raging fire was ravaging her mind; she leaned back on the leather office chair, stretched, and several
cracks
echoed in her silent small apartment illuminated only by the lamp attached to the desk, its bright white light falling directly onto the pages.
She lit a cigarette and inhaled deep, with a sigh letting the blue cloud of smoke out of her mouth; she couldn't even tell how long it'd been since she last had gone out to town. For the past few weeks, her only outings were the visits to the supermarket, for provisions.
The master's thesis was looming over her head like a black cloud ready to implode in the most violent storm, the deadline approaching fast like a runaway train gliding through the tracks with no consideration for innocent passersby and she could do nothing to stall it.
Was there, though, meaning to keep pushing herself, reading all the passages and the books, writing dozens of outlines (which they all, indiscriminately, ended up in the trash bin next to her desk), trying to view the selected subject from all points and angles?
As she dragged from her cigarette, she dreadfully realized that "no, there's no damn point"; every angle she could think of, every main subject and analysis she suddenly thought of as "that's it!", someone'd already written about it, and others had commented, corrected, and argued about it.
Howsoever she looked at it, there was nothing new left to be said; the dreadful realization quickly dawned upon her, though, that it wasn't the fault of those, who had written papers, dissertations, and books on the subject, but her own. She simply wasn't cut out for a life in academia, she did not possess the mental prowess and innovation to make it into this highly competitive field. Even if she had lived before Kant was born, she would not have been able to write, or even come up with something vaguely resembling,
Critique of Pure Reason
. The ideas would have been just as alien to her as the new, still unwritten, ideas of some brilliant genius working somewhere in a basement are.
Hence, and despite the late hour, she got dressed; a short, tight-fitting, red strapless dress and black heels, she checked herself on the mirror after she finished fixing her hair and applying her makeup and smiled contentedly. At the very least, she tried to console herself, I still look good even after so many weeks locked inside, even if I'll never write a philosophical treaty that'll change the world.
Little did it do to comfort her struggling mind, as she was haunted by thoughts about the uncertain future lying ahead, but, her reflection on the mirror was enough to give her a good boost of confidence. She walked out of the apartment building and into the main street of the little town in which she resided.
Even though it was a little past midnight, people were still out in abundance, some staggering back home after more tequila shots than they could handle, while others were taking their parties to the bars and nightclubs that stayed open until the first hours of daylight; it was toward the latter she was heading, too, knowing there'd be a large crowd (it was, after all, Saturday night), which she hoped would aid her to forget, even for a night, the daunting thoughts tormenting her mind.
She pushed her way through the already raucous crowd—plenty of the patrons were already semi-drunk, talking loudly and staggering about—and entered the smoking lounge; it was one of the few bars in town having a respectable place for smokers to sit and enjoy their drinks, without having either to go out in the rain to have a cigarette, or get packed like sardines in a can inside some glass-container.
Rita took a seat at the bar, on the only empty stool, and ordered a gin and tonic; it arrived quickly and the first sip was indeed rejuvenating, as it flowed through her blood system and soothed her mind—perhaps it was simply her own imagination, but, nonetheless, she did feel better.
More relaxed and with a faint smile curling her bright red lips, she turned on the stool, scanning the room; everywhere there were happy people talking over the blasting rock music, sipping from large glasses of beer, dancing, flirting, kissing.
At first, her attention was drawn to a lone man sitting at the edge of the counter, all alone and the sole solemn-looking person in the room, brooding over a nearly-empty glass of what appeared to be whiskey.
Rita smiled at him, when he raised his glance and their eyes momentarily met; he offered her a half-smile, a sullen, tired curl of the lips, then turned to the bartender and pointed at his glass. Soon, Rita gave up on him, as he was evidently more interested in the whiskey he was draining than in her; and yet, something about the long-haired, bearded man in the torn leather jacket and stained black shirt fascinated her.
Her solitude did not last long; suddenly, a young black man dressed in saggy jeans and a tight-fitting purple shirt giving away his muscled torso approached her with a wide smile exposing his bright white teeth; she flinched, when he put his hand, quite tenderly, on her knee, but, decided to play along—after all, she did come to the bar to flirt the night away, to kill some time with the hope of relaxing her mind enough so as to work on her thesis with more bravado come morning.
"Hi there, baby," the young man said, still sporting his wide, warm smile, "whatcha doing all alone?"
"Nothing," she shrugged and tried to smile. "Just...trying to have some fun."
"Where are your friends, baby?" The man insisted, squeezing Rita's knee playfully.
"I'm looking for new ones," she gave him a meaningful wink, then fixed the upper part of her dress.
"Oh, is that so?" His eyes suddenly glinted. "I guess, you've heard what they say, right? Once you go black..." His smile widened even further.
"Right," she giggled, then nipped on her drink. "I didn't know that pertained
friendship
too."
"Oh, but it does, baby," he chuckled and moved closer to her, pressing his crotch against her leg, leaning forth to gaze straight into her eyes.
"My," a loud snorting chuckle escaped her mouth, and her face instantly turned crimson; she felt his hardness and size on her thigh, as he pressed closer against her. "Someone's really happy to see me, huh?"
"Can you blame me, baby? Sitting here, looking hotter than hell," he whispered in her ear, running his hand higher up her thigh.
Rita giggled once more, this time even more girlishly; despite of the ridiculousness of the whole situation and of how the man had approached her (and was flirting with her), she deep down enjoyed it. It was the sort of good, mindless fun she was aching for, something so childish and cliché that was enough to eradicate, even for just one night, all her plaguing thoughts.
Perhaps, her initial attraction to the longhaired heavy drinker at the corner—who was still draining whiskey and remained the soberest (and most somber) person in the room—was that she had inwardly believed he'd provide her with the kind of thought-provoking and arguing-raising conversation she usually sought.
"I'm Tyrese, by the way," the man said directly in her ear, his soft whisper causing goosebumps to rise on her skin.
"Rita," she introduced herself, tilting her head sideways; their lips a mere inch separated and their gazes met for a prolonged time.
Despite his outward behavior and demeanor, Rita noticed
something
in the man's eyes;
something
she could not explain, nor understand, and yet...it allured her deeply, mostly because she believed (or
wanted
to believe) there was something hiding underneath the 'dumb stud' gimmick.
