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The rain is all around us. Laura’s eyes are glowing, her hands are wet. She takes my hand, raises it to her mouth and presses her wet lips on my fingers. “This is the most romantic date in the world”, I tell her. “It should be, she answers whispering, they made me pay 1300 dollars for the license”. Final scene of “The girl in the blue saloon”, directed by Mike Morris, 1953, Aldermart Studios. Starring Mary Kay and John Winston.
Laura always says stuff like “they made me pay”; she’s always complaining, not about the price itself (come on… $1300 is a huge deal), but about the whole idea.
We never agree on this. As much as I try to explain, she won’t accept that society needs to tax the use of film or book or musical or TV-scenes, in order to prevent abuse, fraud, and to encourage artistic development. I’ve tried for so many times to show her that the obligation to pay for prior works is as natural as paying for bread or shelter; that only primitive societies accepted people to live without paying.
But Laura is always being grumpy about having to pay for “natural” rights; yet, she always manages to do the most amazing gestures. Like this one. Our shared dream. Her kiss comes out of the blue; her wet hands come around my head, slightly pulling it down towards her, as she rises on her tiptoes.

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The image is cut bluntly; I wake up sweating, and there is a buzz from the screen, the only light in the room. There is a popup saying dully: credit expired, need to refill. Viamnesis © wishes you the best memories. The image fades away, my mind is blurred now. I can’t seem to remember what I was dreaming about. Must have been something sad, my cheeks are wet with tears. Why can’t I ever remember to pay enough in the evening? For once, at least once, I wish I could remember my dream. I feel like something has been ripped out of my chest. I fall back to sleep, a dreamless one, as the buzz fades and melts into the background.

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The first three notes of “Jingle Bells” wake me up, my centex plays them at full power, and it scares the shit out of me. Those three notes, the only ones I could afford, I bought them in an auction about five years ago. I didn’t want such thing; they did cost me a lot of money, most of my savings. Laura insisted on it. She said that I should, in this twisted world they represent equity, real value to be kept by. I could eventually resell them later, and in the meantime, enjoy them. Now, to come think of it, they are probably the only thing I really own.

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The centex won’t accept my input, there is a green popup saying that my account expired and I should recharge it in order to be able to read my messages or, think of it, to be able to do anything. Damn it… It’s not the first time such a mess happens to me. It would have been so fucking easy to just charge the account for one year or something. But Laura insisted I shouldn’t; it’s no use paying in advance; it’s no use planning, she said.
And now I can’t even access my bank account, ‘cause off course I’d need a centex to do it. I’ll have to go to the bank today. If even I could remember my account number…

This day starts like shit.

Fortunately I’m meeting Laura tonight, at some Italian restaurant. I wonder why she wants us to meet so soon. It’s a bit unusual but, after all, everything about Laura is.

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