1st email

----- Original Message -----
From: Dom Borax
To: Stacey Marchenkova
Sent: Wednesday, April 28, 1999 8:20 PM
Subject: being bold

Hi Stacey,
I’m not sure if you’ll remember me - we met last week at Crisps’ 18st fancy dress birthday party.

I was dressed as depression. All in black.

No one thought it was particularly funny. I didn’t think it was particularly funny.
I was depressed.

At least I didn’t have to try too hard with my costume.
From memory (though to be honest, I’m pretty damn sure) you were dressed as a nihilist and didn’t have any costume at all.

At least that’s what you said when I met you over by the hills hoist washing line (is that a tautology? Do Hills make anything else apart from washing lines…? Message to self, remember to look this up)

We talked for half an hour about how difficult it is to meet people at these kinda of things. And how everyone seems on guard, nervous about being foolish. We then pondered if we were being ourselves at this moment in time.

The depressive and the Nihilist.

The moment ended as I came close to finishing my beer and stated that maybe this was an intellectual’s mating rite.

You rightly laughed at me, pointing out that I had just referred to myself as an intellectual.

You mentioned nothing of the mating rites comment, for as a nihilist any doctrine associated with organisation, associated or imposed, wasn’t worth commenting on.
Right?

Of course you were right and when I returned to the Hill’s Hoist with a new beer, you’d moved on.

And I completely understood.

You had been caught in one of those painful party chit-chats that desperately tried to connect but in the end only reinforced the whole imposed nature of communication.
Foolishly I looked for you for the rest of the night to apologise. But I only caught a glimpse of you as you kissed Darth Vadar goodbye. (Or was it Buddha; I couldn’t tell. Darth Vadar without that helmet on and Buddha look exactly the same when viewed from behind.)

I contemplated calling after you as you stepped into the taxi, but felt that would be all too predictable.

Instead I took the more predictable option and watched you through the rear window of the yellow cab as it sped from Highgate Hill and headed toward the city.

If anything I enjoyed how the streetlights heralded your journey and the night air, nearly visible, created a potential, though familiar cinematic moment.

Anyway I couldn’t help my sentimentality and continued to think of you over the next couple of days. I plucked up the courage to ask Crisps at Uni what your name was. He told me it was Stacey Marchenkova. Russian, huh? (Sorry a moment of clicheitis)

Now I feel like a stalker (note to self; don’t mention the ‘s’ word - only makes you seem more the same) but I was genuinely compelled to contact you and explain myself and offer a small apology for being a dick.

So after receiving your name, I plugged Crisps for your addy. Reluctantly he passed it on and here I am.

My name is Dominic, though I prefer the contracted version; Dom. I think it has a Latin root - home; domus (sp? I think) and after doing a little research, learnt it also means home in Russian.

Please don’t feel the need to reply.

But if in a moment between hot beverages you have that ever so special spare minute, I would love to buy you something small (“Poor, I am” – damn, another allusion to Star Wars) and apologise in person.


Hoping you’re well
Dom