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A Charles Mingus Story


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A Charles Mingus story.

“Fuck!” – Lena thought – “He likes human contact. I just want to kick and have a damn smoke.”

Human contact was the last thing she could handle – seven thousand feet across the Atlantic.

“I can barely ask ‘Coffee please’ without blushing; when have I decided I would fly without chemical sleep?  My ego fucked me again. I should stop putting myself on a paper pedestal just to feel the speed in falling down.” She had then continued in writing, on a page that smelled Los Angeles in every single particle.

“You really want to have human contact Mr.?  Please, come a little closer, my hands are shaking and I can’t blame it on Parkinson.  Not yet, at least.  Do you realize who are you talking to?  I know you like massages and I look like a darkened geisha, but my hands are tied right now. And, they crave something else, somebody else.”

“I don’t like it.” Lena she went on “Why do I seem to like it?  I don’t get aroused so easily, or do I?

No, I really don’t like it.” She thought a second time, while trying to remember such a simple word as water in German.

Wasser…Danke schön…she felt proud not so much for her language skills, but because she had killed the thought.

After drinking her still wasser with no ice, she went back to Mr. humor with a twist sitting next to her.  Her brain couldn’t think straight.  His fingers were nothing like her lover’s. Weren’t they?

No, no man in the world had her lover’s touch. What was happening?

“Maybe I can go from one fix to another; maybe it will calm the nerves for the next ten hours.

Vodka, please, or a kiss?  No lips, they are private property, but you can have my neck if you can work your tongue. Would you Mr.?  For I may get a drink instead.”

His hand had casually touched her left leg, again, exactly where she liked it.  Her muscles were tense and hurt more than during the daily morning lotus.

“Oh…I’m sorry.” He apologized with a genuine yet filthy smile. “I like human touch.”

“I don’t.” Lena replied.

When the conversation crossed the threshold Lena grabbed her headphones and Miles Davis started playing.

“Really?” She thought. “Miles Davis?  He is sex.  I’m not that smart.  Stupid ego!”

“Sir. I’m sorry to bother you…I have to use the restrooms.”

He got up to let her legs slightly touch his, just to feel her skin and smell how tired she was, through her hair in a disrupted pony tale. Apparently, her irresistible post-junkie vulnerability was a new weapon. If only she was able to use it.

“Fuck!  Human contact? Charles Mingus always works.”

The real trial would start in 8 hours, when her parents would pick her up at the airport.

Human contact is not what Lena needed in that moment.

She took a deep breath and, while sitting on the toilet, she stopped her own hand from reaching her personal heaven. Hell must come first. She knew it well.

When she went back to her seat he looked asleep.


“Charles Mingus always works.” She kept writing until her eyes couldn’t bare the dim light anymore.

She fell asleep with the AC on.  Human touch is not what she needed, and without poison she landed in Munich, Germany.


“It was lovely to meet you.” He said before walking to his connecting Gate.


“Pleasure was all mine, let’s not ruin it by exchanging emails.” – Lena forced a smile, tired.


She walked away slowly and thought about the words that had just come out of her mouth. Gate A was just a minute from there, and she had plenty of time to grab a quick coffee and smoke the first cigarette of the day.


From there, it was all another story.