Right now, at this moment, there are around thirty odd people sitting about me on wooden stools, looking fine and calm, having their dinner like it was nobody's business. I, Kleon, who indeed belongs within this despicable congregation just as much as my friend Lysander here does, had a minor thought today, nothing too inspiring. A brainchild, birthed from the much amassed scribble of thoughts i had during a session of cogitation. My muse in all this is, of course, none other than the immeasurably beautiful Anastasia, whom i covet with an insatiable wantonness not yet derived from any-
'Kleon', there you are you scoundrel'
There were voices other than that of my own thoughts, so i draw up a face that has Ares written all over it and, turning –
'Anastasia, by the grace of the gods, i knew you would come'
There was the ritualistic hug and cheek peck, but nothing like what i had envisioned in my dreams at night.... indeed, nothing even close to that.
Anastasia and my old friend Lysander are brother and sister, Bounded by blood, as they are bounded by lust. Lovers. The eternal heart splitting song of Ares plays on and i can't help but feeling, 'feeling', that's a good one, feeling sick to the gall.
Anastasia, whom I notice tonight, is wearing a blue toga with a regiment of golden buttons to complement its tasteful elegance, touches the wholly unworthy Lysander on the cheek, with meanings too human for me to decipher, and whispers something to him in the language of Venus. They giggle like only star-crossed fools do, and I'm sitting here impatiently, kylix in hand, looking exactly how i feel like.
When i discover this, how I'm 'feeling', i mean, at this one moment, i recollect myself and put on, what i like to call, my mask of sanity.
She pulls a chair from the table beside, and seats herself.
'you know Annie, we've been waiting a lifetime over here, no service until Venus in all her glory herself arrives, thanks a lot honey' This was i guess what Lysander would label as a 'joke' or a 'tease', but I'm not in the business of understanding human idioms or customs for that matter, so i replicate the sound of a what a laugh, i guess would sound like, and crease the smile lines on my face. I had myself looking like that old bastard in the sky, Zeus himself.
'As i always say, Praise the gods for this lovely dinner, it would not have been without your help Lysander'
'Cram it buddy, we all know you're the priest around here, without your blessings to Zeus, i don't know how this would have all happened... i mean, reservations at Locousta's is not an easy move to swing'
I stare with eyes undecipherable.
'..... In other words, i guess you mean, thank you?'
Then comes the laugh again, which i, of course duplicate. A thought passes through my mind and it reminds me about how good i have become in dressing myself up as a human.
Then Anastasia - 'Oh, Kleon', you're such a charmer'
Over time, i am cascaded in a myriad of unrecognizable human emotional idioms that i have untrained myself to react towards. One example is that fact that i am feeling the touch of Anastasia's leg, moving slowly, i guess you as a human yourself would say 'sensuously', up mine. She has her eyes dead set on me, while Lysander, her supposed lover, preaches on in a language i can hear, imitate, Fabricate, but with it not be intimate.
I give her what anyone would expect. These idioms, these gestures, i can replicate – but not understand to any degree. But there is one thing i am all but unaccustomed to – lust. And right now, those familiar pangs of aching licentiousness grow inside me, and i am now dead set on giving her what she deserves.
The marte d' arrives at our table.
'Good evening friends, how is your salad today?'
I smile, 'the best in Hellas, i would say. But your wine sir; it's simply, too good for public consumption, i recommend it be taken off at once' I laugh, i lie. It was horrible; you can get a better serving at Nico's dinner for half the price of the olives.
'Thank you sir, i myself don't drink, I'm a Pythagorean'
I Take another sip from the Kylix and crease the lines on my face until they resemble, once again, a simple smile, eluding psychotic eyes.
Just a thought – Anastasia is, a typical human, overwhelmed by emotions. If i had the chance... to replicate my sorrow for the death of her father, or mother in that case, would she then sleep with me?
I would need to possess the soul of Ares himself in order come up with something impressive, never mind the crocodile tears, but – how old is her father? Old enough to die soon i hope, time is of the essence – her virginity still intact. But come to think of it, with Lysander clinging onto the width and breadth of her existence, she probably will bear children sooner than expected.
Another thought - how long do you think it takes for a human corpse to decay? I never think of these things.