Teardrops are a collection of short, slightly sad stories (but remember, there are tears of joy and of love), that exist for a brief moment before they are wiped, and shed every Sunday. Or when they are ready, whichever comes last...

You have one message

by Antheros

To Giorgia

“Hi, it's me, Giorgia,” the answering machine said when I pressed play. Giogia who? I don't know any Giorgia. Do I? It's such a pretty name, however, makes me think of Italy. I like your voice, raspy and sexy.

“How... are you?” I'm fine. Life just keeps going. Better now that you called, and even better if you've left your number at the end of the message, because I still don't know who you are. Was I that drunk last week end? Ah, who am I kidding, yes I was.

“I know it's been a while since we last talked.” I am sure I'd remember any woman with a name like that, even if it had been a while since we last talked. Wait a moment, what was the name of that girl I slept with about three years ago, on New Year's Eve? No, it was Gina. Yeah. And I dumped her. I don't think she'd be calling me again.

“I... I've been thinking of you.” She was really pissed off. What did she want, ever lasting love? Women.

“I... I think I miss you, John.” John. She remembers me, knows my name and my number. Wonderful, this, a girl misses me so much she calls and leaves me a message, she doesn't sound drunk, and I don't have the faintest idea of who she is. Hey, maybe she dialed the wrong number, how many Johns are there? Millions. It's not a name like Giorgia.

“Do you remember that time you took me to that Italian restaurant?” Oh, come on! Come on! Italian is my favorite food, I've taken every girl I ever dated to an Italian restaurant! Couldn't you have said Indian, Lithuanian, Egyptian, something like that? You're not helping, Giorgia.

“It was the best night of my life. I loved it so much.” That blonde girl I met at the park! She was Italian. But her name wasn't Giorgia. And I didn't take her to an Italian restaurant, because, well, because she was Italian. We went to that small Japanese place. See, this is what I'm talking about: Japanese place. Not Italian.

“Then you drove around. The wind blowing, the summer night.” Did I date anybody with a strange name last summer? But that Italian babe was cute. And she knew how to kiss. Such a pity that she had to go back to Italy, so soon. I could have screwed her for at least another week.

“I loved it. You took me to that small bed and breakfast.” A-ha, here's something I can use. Small bed and breakfast, summer night. Shit, I don't remember any of that. She does have the wrong number. There was that hotel I took that... was she a brunette? I was drunk. And I don't think I drove. Actually, I don't remember much of that night.

“We made love all night long.” And here's another piece of useless information. Bed and breakfast. That time I gave a ride to Victoria, we stopped at a B&B. No Italian restaurant that I recall. No sleep, either. I should call Victoria, she was always a great lay.

“I've been... I'm sorry, John. I got your flowers, and the chocolate, and all those gifts you sent me. And I read that letter a million times.” That is it. Wrong John. This one won't send chocolate, flowers and more stuff to a girl he has already slept with. Unless you are a movie star, and I don't remember taking any movie stars to bed. Except that big breasted blonde, who I'm pretty sure was a porn star. If she wasn't, she sure had the talent for it.

“The poem was so beautiful... I cry every time I read it. Even now...” Unbelievable. The guy probably copied a poem from a card and she thinks he's some sort of... what's the name of a famous poet... ah, Shakespeare. And that he means what he wrote. Women.

“Call me. Please, John. Call me.” I would, baby, if I had your number. Whatever. The message is over.

“No more messages.” Well, I wonder if Victoria is home and up for tonight.

15 Jan 2006
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