Broken heart syndrome

Chapter 1.

I've always thought that love is just a meaningless hack that brings two people together, only to later make them their hated arch -enemies. Then I fell in love.

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I wanted one thing – that blonde girl I saw on Monday. She's been in my head for four days now and I still can't get over the fact how much of a coward I am. All I had to do was walk over, ask if she had a handkerchief, and when she gave it to me, ask her to write her phone number on it. Instead, I quickly finished my cigarette and watched out of the corner of my eye as she disappeared on the other side of the street. I returned to this place every day at the same time, hoping to meet this lovely girl again. A tall blonde. She had beautiful shiny hair. And I know I sound more like a pussy than a man now (who says the dream girl had beautiful shiny hair?), but it's true. A small nose and gorgeous, full, pink lips. Plus, she had an olive skin and was totally within my reach.

However, as we already know, I chickened out. I hate myself for it. I did more miles in four days than in the last year. I also smoked a hundred times more cigarettes. Both from stress and due to the fact that I had to pass the time somehow, waiting like a fool for that girl.

While I was so desperate, I had the company dinner. Nothing big. A longtime employee was retiring, so it was appropriate to say goodbye to him. My brain was running on two thoughts only - the blonde and another cigarette to ease the emotional-existential pain. I didn't want to be there. I preferred to stay put like a dog in the place where I last saw my dream girl, but I'd worked with this guy in the same department for four years, so I had to attend. Dinner was to be held at a small restaurant in a gated neighborhood. At first glance, I thought we were going to some shithole, but then new blocks of apartments appeared. The smell of post-war communist Poland, but in a newer, more elegant edition. We entered a small, cozy Italian restaurant. Intimate dark decor warmed up by hanging lamps from which yellow light was shining. For a small eatery in the outback , it was quite busy there. Since the boss was paying for everything, I wanted to eat quickly and go home. I don't like to say it, but I'd rather cry alone thinking about having a relationship with a girl I'll never see again than sit with six grown men and stuff my mouth with yeast pie with mushrooms and cheese. The more so that it was a company dinner, and my boss is a "drunk uncle at the wedding reception after 10 p.m." type of guy. I like him, but sometimes I can't stand him.

I hadn't had a drink in three months, but since I am now a certified blacksmith of my own demise with a broken-heart, I figured it was time for a relapse. I ordered a carbonara. It wasn't bad. Although I can't compare it to almost anything, because the only carbonara I have ever had is the kind of shitty one my mother made when I was a child. White wine, on the other hand, was much better. Only white wine. Red is for people with no taste and instagram girls who want to show that they are classy women, to then spread their legs in front of any Sheikh with a yacht, not knowing that they will probably never see their loved ones ever again. In the meantime, I went to smoke. I didn't want to, but I felt the need. Call it an addiction, but for me it was an indicator that the brain is thinking about the blonde again, and the heart is feeling the effects of it, which makes my soul crumble, and I have to pierce my lungs with sharp cigarette smoke again.

I love to poeticize imaginary pain and smokes. Does your mouth reeks of stale cigarettes? No, it's the smell of your suffering. Glowing tobacco leaves represent the worry burning your insides. It's the same thing, but you don't come across as a dirty smoker, but as a sensitive artist, a word-smith. Bullshit... like everything I say. However, while I was smoking, I couldn't help but admire the bamboo balconies in the block of flats across the sidewalk. Fascinated by the apartment numbers on the bottom of the balconies, I let out a gray cloud of smoke every now and then. Some old guy walked by and stared at me, ostentatiously following my persona. I don't know if he had a problem with me smoking or that I had a pink hoodie... or tattoos, but I was so unwilling to live that I didn't even care. I went back to the restaurant and my pasta was waiting on the table. I ate it with the highest culture - elbows off the table, clean mouth, small bites. Other people could follow my example. When I was done, I ordered a second glass of wine. Then the chit chat began.