Saturday Night Out

by HelluvaGirl

I have this poppy red lipstick that makes me want to have a job where it should be a uniform. Like a pencil skirt to a stewardess. Or a tie to a banker.

It makes me a different person as soon as I put it on – it makes me me.

Unfortunately, every single day I slip into something pastel and the most daring thing to allow myself is a feline flick. A modest one.

However, when I go out, I put the poppy red on my lips and find it the best accessory to my biker jacket and everything else black.


She calls me in the morning, or do I call her? and instead of saying hello we burst out laughing. As soon as we calm down, she asks:

How’s the bride of the night?

Without a Tiffany’s!

We laugh some more, then she says dreamily:

I’m sooo happy! I went out last night, got drunk like a normal person… To hell with diets, jogging and self-restraint!

Then we go through the events we both remember. How Architect said he loved me and wanted me to be his wife, how that other guy told her he loved his wife more than his own life, and to me – that he wasn’t happy and there was no love at home, so maybe we should go somewhere. And how we met Genius…

How do you know him, by the way?

I’ve known him since I came to Vilnius.



We enter the Bar and I see him standing with his girlfriend. A bit funny that I came here with his ex, sort of. But that’s something he can’t really avoid in this town of ours.

My friend greets him first; I don’t rush. We kiss, he hugs me. What are we having? It’s a fancy red one (Zinfandel or Primitivo? can’t remember, but I love them both anyway).

How are you?

I’m great.

No, seriously.

I look at him lightheartedly and it’s cool that what I’m saying is true. We talk this and that, and very early in the conversation, he asks the question My Beloved Poet would ask every time:

Do you write?

It’s a pressing question. This time, I answer without even blinking:

Yes! Every day. Passionately.

You do write? You know you must. It’s your thing.

I know. Can’t imagine myself quitting now. I love doing it so much…

Send me something.

Sure. I will struggle selecting what you might like… I’ve always tried to please you.

I look at him warmly and openly as if we met in the Afterlife and the fact he has been my fatal disease for years was irrelevant now. I love how we can be nice to each other, and I want to say kind things to him.

You know you were the first person to read my poetry and I will always be grateful for your encouragement. As anyone on the creative path, I was tangled in self-doubt and without the slightest clue if what I wrote was any good. Your support meant the world to me and pushed me forward. Do you write?

He does, just for himself. As we continue to talk about his approach to creativity, the topic of openness is inevitably touched, and I say:

I have discussed this with My Beloved Poet once…

He cuts me off:

Ah, him… Yeah, he says you are his muse.

I’m suddenly a little girl. My eyes widen, I gasp:

No! Did he say that to you? He couldn’t say it…

Yes, his words. His muse.

I feel like jumping up and down. Even if it’s not true, I love Genius for saying this. We are talking about one of the most outstanding contemporary Lithuanian poets, a creator whose words are capable of moving you through images and feelings out of this world – he’s a shaman of words. I consider it a gift to even know him, let alone own almost all his books with hand-written dedications; it was an honour to be encouraged by him to write, but I also have heard many wise words from him, spoken as if I wasn’t a disciple but a fellow traveller in the dark. (You are not born to have a Teacher. You don’t look for a helping hand. You go out there and look for the way. As much as I know, I think you’re doing it right.)

No, I can’t be his muse: he writes about things too penetrating, existential and all-encompassing. But as a vain female, I am very pleased!

Genius wants me to meet his girlfriend but I tell him we already introduced ourselves.

Ah, women! You do things fast.

I have been watching her as we spoke with her man. A generic face. Patience. A young thing in a shadow. It only makes sense.

He tells me he’s happy. Good to know. Really didn’t expect him to settle down with anyone.

Of course, she’s much younger. No kinky skills like yours. Some things I will never, never forget.

Are you faithful?



Architect disappears, having planted a champagne glass into my hand. I call my friend a taxi, Genius leaves with his girl and, as I’m about to go, I see a handsome face at the other end of the bar. Well-shaven, expensive haircut, intelligent look. Sober, too, at that time of night. From the outside, you might think he’s a refreshing variation to the boring/desperate/drunk/unattractive fauna of the Bar. Alpha Male.

As I pass by his company towards the door, he shouts my name several times. I walk out without turning my head.

Not a chance, arsehole.