#1

The tall old man who poured my whiskey and twisted his mouth sideways when I asked for the second one, comes in, smiling, and invites me to follow him into the large hall. As I imagined, the chairs are cheap, on shiny parquet, misassembled in a semicircle, as if a bitter slice of lemon was just chucked there. My desire for control, which I mask as an appreciation for details, almost moves me to straighten them up. There is a small wobbly podium, in the centre. That is my place. I ask for a chair to place my leather bag on and some notes I always pretend I am reading. They are mainly empty scraps of paper or old receipts I fiddle with in my hands. I have my faithful little bottle of water with a floating piece of fresh cucumber. At that point, I normally sit, hands on my lap, palms facing up. I close my eyes, and I listen to the people coming in. I observe with my mind eye their demeanour, I can tell their stories by their paces, by the sound of the soles of their shoes if they have been successful or instead still bitterly regret a specific choice in their life. If they are coming alone or accompanied. When I hear that the shuffling noises have quieted down, that is normally the time when any tall old man who poured me some whiskey before, goes to the podium to introduce me. I know the introduction, I heard it so many times before, I know the pauses, the inflexions. I can perceive the silent smile at the attempted joke on my accent. I know it. I know it all because I wrote it. One night, when I still believed in what I wrote. I can hear him stop, pause. I feel the air moving when he waves his hand towards me, and then the clapping begins.

It is now that I open my eyes, wipe my glasses with my handkerchief, stand up and reach centre stage. I normally smile, look at the whole room, take all their eyes in, smiles, faces, and expectations. All of them, from the back row to the very front one, including the two I mentioned before. Everything.
Then, I look down, pretending to read from my empty notes, and begin:
“Thank you, thank you for having me…”

Instead, this time, I look at the very last person in the room. There is a man, standing tall, next to the main large door. He wears a sort of uniform, a dark grey emblazoned jacket with the colours of the college. Normally, at this time, the chaperone would have already gone, but this time… this time he stays. He waits. He looks at me, expectant.
I look at him. I open my mouth. I pause. And then I say:
“The sea at Lytham is not as salty as in Grado”.
He is still looking at me. Then he nods, smiles, and grabs the door handle.
Exit Stage right. And he is gone.

That was awkward.
I don’t know what to do now. I look at them, I smile, and I look at my white scraps of paper, hoping I find some inspiration there. But there is nothing. I look to my left, and Ale is always there, but this time the look on that face is of dismay. We lock eyes. I close mine and I can only see a large yew tree gently swaying in the wind. Ale coughs and brings me back to the reality of a large panelled hall, with a semicircle of tangy men sitting in front of me.

There I straighten my back, clear my voice with a quick cough, and decide to tell them the truth.

“The sea at Lytham is not as salty as in Grado”, I smile and repeat.