IM Italian magazine issue #18

OnShort

By F. Guzzardi

The Director and the Saleswoman

What do you think about now, do you still think about yourself? What pretension if, I have added another detail to the shopping bag, not a little for those who are well, are you well? You, I mean, artificial gymnastics, sweat-free, do you think you’ve ever been farther away than you are now? Turn on the light, (synonymous with opening the way or the mind,) but, she lies, said the actor who, as soon as he got off the stage, stumbled into love. It was clear, however, that this was the name given to all heartbeats that went beyond a certain frequency, the one that usually passes between a “cappuccino” and a kiss, between a goodbye and an attraction.

Attracting, magnetizing, sticking, gluing, what drama was foreseen before that fusion of gazes? The director had only imagined it, yes, the last scene always succeeds for everyone because the muscles of the neck are more and more relaxed, as after an orgasm, you can say things of an unprecedented madness or nothing, almost meditating on the void. The life of the Saleswoman who applauded at the end of each act was also empty. A unique spectator, perhaps paying (in the sense that she suffered from it) and regretting everything even the last visit to the gynecologist. She who had never betrayed anyone with her looks, suddenly turned the script upside down and began to cry, as artists do in the face of beauty, because, they say, “there is nothing better than feeling envious of the works of others”.

“You amaze me, madam!” on the other hand, do not think that by the mere fact of having paid for a ticket, you are allowed to contemplate. Contemplation is a divine (another?) gift. Divinity exists in madness, and what greater madness is there than that which agitates the devourer of the stage?”

The director stopped talking but the woman’s breath had also shortened, it never happens, love at night, after a day of porterage and it was not the right time either, so much so that the saleswoman squeezed her legs after taking a position in the front row. She already knew that the artist was going to spit a few lines in her face, it happens when you’re in the front row, it happens when you pay for the ticket.

And yet, the theater vibrated with all that could have been. In the distance, you could hear some notes of that alternative author, yes, one of those avant-garde musicians dedicated to alcohol and women. Deafening, as did the lady in elephant fur (it seemed) with caviar diamonds (poetic license). Expressionless the cashier was chewing gum.