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The girl on the stairs/ Sunday story

2024-04-07 11:00:00, Kulturë Agim Xhafka
The girl on the stairs/ Sunday story
Dawn Xhafka

It had been three days that every morning I went down the stairs one floor below my apartment, I met the same girl. Sitting and with mobile phone in front. Her screen seemed off to me. Maybe he was eavesdropping to get some news, or waiting for an SMS. I didn't know, I guessed. But it was very beautiful. And long. And with green eyes. And with wavy brown hair that fell below her shoulders. I say this because one morning the road was blocked and in order for me to cross it would have to be moved. A perri, says my age about this kind of extra dance.

But this morning I got very curious. I wanted to know why he was staying there and not, for example, on my floor, or above on the seventh floor.
- Are you waiting for Miklori?

Miklori was our neighbor. A lawyer who is doing well in business and turned his home into an office. With his wife and son, he moved to the suburbs, to a block of villas. But he did not keep it as an office since he was stationed in one of the new towers in Tirana. Now the apartment was empty. Sometimes he would come and see her and ventilate her. Add a woman, Calja told me a few months ago. And it's good to know that he's quite a man, I stopped the rumour. And in fact, Miklori seemed to have been cast in a foundry. He was so perfect in stature. Or blue eyes, or black hair, or wealth. This is what I was thinking and waiting for an answer from the girl.

- Yes. I am waiting for Miklorin. I have three days.
I know that you have three days, I said to myself. But I was surprised by the answer that contained a strong insistence.
- He doesn't come here, he lives outside Tirana. To tell you where the offices are, I wanted to help him.
-No no. I know where he lives and where he works. Yes, I will wait here.
And sat down on the stairs. I saw that I had nothing more to say, so he cut me off. I started to take the steps down, when I heard:
- Do you have three minutes to listen to me?
- I have as much as you want.
He put his hand on the ladder, meaning come sit down. As soon as I got comfortable it started.

- I have been several times with Miklori at this house here, (he pointed towards the back door with his head). We even slept at this apartment one night. Me and Miklori. (At that moment his eyes hardened. He looked at me as if he put ice in his pupils). I know that he is married, I know that he has children, I know that he has a beautiful and wise wife, I know that he loves her very much. But that man hit me on the head. He stole not only my heart, but also my brain. I love him like crazy, that's the expression that fits me right now. I thought it would be a momentary distraction, it would pass me by. And while I was waiting for relief and adjustment, jealousy took over me. Who is he living with now, with whom does he go to the empty apartment, what is he doing, how is he doing it... A great terror has taken hold of me and I am guarding it so as not to catch it, but to see that what has replaced me is more more beautiful than me, or the next woman. It seems strange that I talk to a stranger, but when people don't know where to open up and where to express themselves, they go to the forest and talk to the trees. Or they dig a small hole with their hands and empty out their anxieties and nightmares.

I saw that there was no god to bring him to himself. It was a waste of words and energy. I had never met a man in such a state. It felt like the remote control when the battery runs out and the TV is stuck on the station you hate. But she was looking at me in the eyes like that deer in Voskopoja that had caught her leg with a noose, and when I got close she started crying. As soon as he let out the words, help me, man. And at that very moment I remembered Llaqi. Who is Laqqi? Here, I showed it to the girl, learn it too.

- O beautiful girl who looks like Llaq's sister to me today. Do not distort your face. Llaqi is really an ugly name, but he was a boy. Filled with quality and goodness. But your illness had caught him. Devoted to the most beautiful girl in town. He met her several times and then she moved from Llaqi to another chun. But Llaqi did not accept it. Like the student whose breast is four, he says to him, you see, but I don't call him! He believed that love is like the door to the house that has your name on it and no one can take it away. It was like crazy. He was looking for her everywhere. Until one day someone told her her address. He took the guitar and went the first night there, under some barred windows. He started serenading. Until the morning. But from the inside, there was no sign of the oyster. Llaqi was not upset. Deep down, he took a position under the window again. Song by song the morning caught him. Some nights like that. Persisting from obsessive love. Fortunately, one of his cousins ??spent a night there.

He heard it, felt sorry for him, approached him, hugged him and said:
- Lacquer, this building is the warehouse of potatoes. They have you right about your girlfriend's address.
But Llaqi did not obey. It came a few nights later. It was his fate that one morning, after he had fallen asleep under the window, some men woke him up. They asked him to leave because they were going to load the car with potatoes.

I thought I gave him a clear message. The girl listened to me without batting an eyelash. As it seems, she removed the lie from her fixation on love taken. It happened like with tea in Turkish movies. Which use two samovars. A hot one that fills the glass more than halfway. Then add cold water up to the head. And such is life. With two samovars. One full of assumptions and fixations, the other with logic and reasoning that balances us.

I saw it go away. He went down one, two, three steps and came back. She came at me and almost knocked me down with her hug and she was crying. With a sigh, with a sigh. With relief. Like a sick person who opens his eyes after the serum that plays in his head, blood and veins. I was also relieved. When I stay with the sick, I remembered an expression of my grandmother. /CNA 

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