YD6~13 On The Brink of Ruins Tango Exhausting Romance

Vitrine of Consciousness, Synopsis:
Aetheria's personification of consciousness' 10-year odyssey, until birth, "You Are My Sunshine." Her first two years of her life. at nine-month intervals, she’s resuscitated in dramatic circumstances. her susceptible persistent Intensive Care Unit respiratory and neurologic problems volatilized – Sunshine’s mother departed from home taking her daughter with. Through the author's lifetime of notes, readers are drawn into a realm where personal psychic experiences beginning as a three-month-old newborn. As the author learns to write, the narrative unfolds the hybrid of the mind navigating the dichotomy between dark matter and radiant light, ultimately revealing a world seen through the captivating prism of neon plasma -- in other words, a maze of crystalline transparency.

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Flash Memoir:

We met at the departure hall to wish farewell. She lures me to passionate kisses, draws me into a discrete corner, hands fondles. On a tango hold, her knee slips up my leg, rubs my thigh to my crotch. To my chilly regret, I break away. I couldn’t expect her to grasp, a head of my Hydra lingers outside, saying to myself. ‘_if I miss catching the last bus, I’ll walk through half of the night at getting home--_!’ I’m waking up, in an attempt at reading in the upcoming day’s first light the zodiac mirroring moral interface with my brain —.

I’m rising from bed, slipping into my pants and shirt, a sock out of my shoe, footing, the one and other shoe walking to pull the lever and behind the closing door to descend the stairway. Downstairs, across the TV room, I’m greeting the petite woman’s advanced pregnancy. While further, the native maid stands in the window light by the sink, with a snarling face, as I excused myself.

With the entrance door at sight, I turn away from the hallway, to round the archway jamb, to the black slate floor through the wing’s empty room. Discard my mind playing with the idea of a potential playroom, to head toward the small pane window, sashes daylight to the sunken room. I cleared a curiosity glance over the backyard, to head for far in the room, spin around the corner of my desk, coil to sit front the blank monitor screen, posed on the pedestal of the Central Processor Unit box. While in the forefront awaits Sunday’s Lionel and Gavin moments, I’m respectful waiting and short of ten o’clock, pick the handset alongside the IBM Personal Computer. My index finger piano on the cradle’s touch-button keypad. I hold with a distant - Ring, ring, ring - to break. “Hello, Mrs. Stein.”

With a mental sigh, I’m saying. ‘_Ho, no Jacqueline! Why don’t you answer_?_’ Mrs. Stein breaches my words. “Mrs. Stein, is Jacqueline there…” She grates her vocal cords, saying. “Jacqueline is getting married.” Her words pounded my chest, dearth truthfulness. 

Reminiscent of Jacqueline driving up in the gray BMW on a busy Saturday, among shoppers’ month-end traffic through Sandton City’s parking. To my surprise, the car coasted past my flag-down stance, shadow her mother profiled low behind the passenger window. Passed by to a halt, Jacqueline rose above the BMW’s roof, moving toward the rear, to meet by the trunk, throw arms around my neck, smacking with tender lips, to an amorous prolonged hug I daren’t think. ‘_What’s going on to deserve this_?’ With her mother waiting, she breaks away, rushes across the BMW to disappear and drives away.

Mrs. Stein hangs on, but my universe is bankrupt, but my mind pirated her mental whispers, a convenient farce — Jacqueline’s Greek gambler, flashing the Virgo, and convenient local painting contractor, given a secretarial job, to an office desk. With perks. Jacqueline driving his BMW — I hang up the phone. Uncoiled from my chair, I wanted to hear in Jacqueline’s own words, but headed toward the hallway by the hinging door and across the porch to cross her Englishman in the courtyard. Behind my orange Mercedes, instead of a telltale, I couldn’t envy persevered selling printed T-shirts. I’ve told him so many times, at the bottom of a tower scaffolding on which he spends weekends painting the exterior of his house. “Martin, how do you do it?”

Martin Knowler profits from my question after answering. “I look back at the work I’ve accomplished, not what I still have to do.” Rather, as a salesman’s pitch to accede to gauging my wealth. I didn’t read the Virgo’s inattentive glimpses, that he might be concerned by an engine oil slick on the purple-beige to brown solar bricks, paving the front of the house, he’s asking. “What year is your car?”

Martin prodded too deep in my pride to trigger Brian’s words that day in front of the Esso gas station, saying. “It’s go a ninety-eighty-three engine.” — Left me thinking. ‘_That’s new enough to make the impression!_’ Martin steps away, and left me head for the flank of the Mercedes. I overlooked the orange roof as Martine grips the double-story tower scaffold to climb--. 

Each morning, I’m reminded. ‘_297,000 kilometers,_’ on the speedometer. Bugged by the stark alternator excess whining before firing the engine to drive away. On a return from Johannesburg’s outskirts, as I’m cruising, the wayside amplifies the crystal showroom to the upcoming Mercedes-Benz signage. I cringe at the thought of snobbish car salespeople. Despite a reminder 10% shy price tag to replace a silencer than the amount I paid for the car. I opt to veer from the main road--. 

With a plan, I steer from the curving main road’s median curb lanes, as Sandton City comes into sight a block ahead. Coast along the driveway, passed a few shaped car trunks tail lights and number plates, the various car makers’ muzzles—like horses harnessed to the curb facing the passing by traffic—while across the driveway, a salesman gazes from his cigarette break, as my hand’s heel spins the steering wheel. I’m stalling the car onto facing the flower color myriads parterre to a bypassing trickling traffic. 

I’m optimistic, though, that my Mercedes can fool by a few years the model in the showroom. Though the snooty salesman’s resign gaze, stepping away from a stance outside the glazed gazebo entrance shaping the curtain wall. I step out, closing the door behind. With long strides, I cross the driveway, with a look back in the salesman’s beam of sight—Helios riding toward a late morning peak, splashes a blinding light, bathing the broad, ripe orange car model. I enter the crystal showroom, my eyesight away from the slender sportive salesman in a tailored suit standing by a stretched version model of the Mercedes, fall on a charming young woman behind the front desk. 

I cross the showroom floor to step up to the young woman, inquiring about the engine’s choking pistons while fatigue whining alternator. Her ignorant eyes direct me offside through a plate-glass wall to a clinic clean and tidy workshop. I thank her while hurrying away. Cross by the swinging plate-glass door to the workshop floor. Turn toward the wing’s two-way driving lane, to the far workshop door light to the exterior. Offside, a few mechanics in bright gray-blue uniforms moved about an elevated car.

As I set off to meet, one man breaks away, and unveils the chief mechanic, by stepping into the driving lane, approaching along the sides to wheels of cars high off the floor. I sneak in my charm to find the mechanic equally friendly, replying. “The engine is tired.” I insisted with under-the-hood questions, walking abreast, the chief mechanic diplomatic edges away, explaining. “The pistons ring wear… Struggle crank up low compression before gaining enough speed to ignite the fuel-air mixture.” Leads me turning on my way out of the showroom.

On Monday morning, after my desperate phone call, a vulture in the Libra from a carrion feeling eaten to the bones, I begged. “Hilton, don’t you have a job for me?” I cruised late morning amid traffic trickling along the Western Bypass, after Hilton Rogoff’s nonchalant invitation — churning in mind a love-hate raking autumn leaves underneath the brushwood of my life’s tree, until I reached Soweto. Distracted by a myriad of plumes rising from earth’s rugged chimneys, pegging a creepy smoke blanket from the distant shallow valley squirm to the leading highway. I plowed through the smog drifting across the leading asphalt bands to a no-man’s shaggy grasslands. the wayside industrial zone, arouse encumbering sheds. Until heads from the fog, the concrete sleek parapet span athwart my way. Fixed my bearing on the highway I shun, coasting the off-ramp, pulling up to the junction lenses to confusion with the Baragwanath hospital’s thoroughfare.

With a sliver of hope, I crawled the corner onto the thoroughfare away from the smoggy South Western Township in the straight toward Johannesburg, searching the wide median island for a gap. I dwarfed steering my car crawling along the curb, a way for juggernaut trains of wheels. Across a few distant vehicles on oncoming lanes in the distance, looming scarified grassland raising Aeroton’s plague gray industrial sheds at my encounter. The smog lifted, as I’m riding over terrain paved asphalt spilling by the shouldering cropped grass. Intuitive rose the street nameplate post, to the cornering by warped security fence to delineate a yard. While across the side street rotates to sight, fragmented rich antiquity designed derelict store, to blatant industrial, single floor strip. Short of the industrial gateway’s cracks at the end of the street front strip. I spin the steering wheel, crossing the other asphalt half, along with a workforce in series a dozen of taillights parked cars before “ND10F” window frames. Across the capped entrance canopy, as resonate an order command. ‘_An Eight-one-three, by two-o-three-two, tongue-and-grove double rebated meranti door._’ I pull up on the driveway gritty’s apron to fluted pillars with intermittent “TD67S” type awning windows, fenestrated home in Kelvin’.

With a glimpse at my wristwatch, assured in time for my appointment, my little finger hooks the door liver, to step out, sweeping an inadvertent Warthog’s innate skeptic glance. ‘_Where am I?_’  Pace away, closing the door behind. In my strides, strange instead of a wooden entrance door frame, the exterior brick wide wall expressed the reveal with a half-brick wall pressed metal door jamb. Which rhymes, the Wispeco’s catalog reference to mind. ‘_One - six - two - six by two - O - three - two by one - one - four - jamb, with a transom._’ To lend a few fingers to the mortice lock lever, unlatch the door crack, the dormant rebated leaf, hinged clearing an austere gloom shining a dozen treads to a walk-up floor. I ascend toward the far discrete flush panel paired doors to shades of light embossed wall spreading a faded chalky white painted hallway’s rear wall. I peek around the corner, beyond the black and white outsized photographic souvenir depicting the earlier fascia signage, “Duro Industries.” 

Further, my eyesight jumped from another souvenir photograph, across the dead ended hallway and stepped from around the corner toward the first, women portrayed in the glazed “ND10F” light, crowned by a headband of headphones, half-sight on an inexistent screen telereading her mind, short of the security glass, conversing repeating. “Duro Windows, May I help you?” While hands hidden on her desktop, fingered incessant flicking telephone exchange. The woman raises stern, telling eyes. ‘_I’ve had enough of this?_’ Speak to her the switchboard gravity switches, redirecting a stream of callers “Can I help… ‘_you_’?” 

“I’m here for Hilton Rogoff.” And peering over my shoulder, her eyes saying. ‘_There he is!_’ 

Hilton ceased in his stride, with the door leaf, with a glued grip on the lever, to his surprise, he thaws light-footed, saying. “Come.” He brushes past, hastens his stride, veers away into the hallway, to an immediate divergence from the narrow corridor stretching out of sight, counter swings to crack the first corridor door. Hilton steps by the hinging door planting the side wall, to disappear behind the blind wall, clearing the aisle to the meager Tobianski, “Tobi” cowering in the light on a chair profile against the far left “TD67S” window.

I leaned to hesitant strides into a mess room, clearing a stretch tabletop stretching toward the tall glazed awning residential window. Reach regaining Hilton, I skip my eyesight from the orange Mercedes rooftop, to Hilton passing behind kitchen chairs backrests, to pause alongside the grizzly, old man Mr. Eidelstein, thick mustached. Profiled his sturdy figure in the right light awning windows out the trio to columns flute thin, seated too, in front of his “skaftin.” Hilton addressed both Duro Industries’ founders in his angle of sight, eyes sight. ‘_Here is the man I told you about earlier!_’ 

I’m expecting questions to bombard me, as behind Hilton, restless among the founders, a pace away from grabbing a backrest to sit. The company’s buyer, Tobi, and telling regard. ‘_Why do we need this guy?_’ While eyes raising at random from their lunch, the old-man Eidelstein’s expedient fetching eyes, saying. ‘_This guy can simplify the dispatch department invoicing sales!_’ The old-man, Eidelstein, tossed me a few friendly questions. Time paused, the Afrikaner, slender and back to the dark corner, logistic manager, in quest of an urgent task at hand, pressed to wedge beyond Hilton to one of the founders. But held back, stay amidst Eidelstein son’s carefree draping figure on the chair, manager of the aluminum department, listening to what’s transpiring. While shy from the window, by the microwave oven, the warped hunchback transport manager, silhouettes ceased with his lunchbox removed. As the regards fell silent, I’m excused, turning away from men’s brainstorming lunch-hour, I proceeded toward the corridor framed in the doorway. I’m pulling the door close, the passage out, raising to mind a rambling zodiac of a duo of Egyptian and Chinese characters to bemuse my ride home.