ville

Ville belonged somewhere.

Extraordinarily enough, however, he didn't seem to mind that nobody could quite make out where it was.

It used to be a subject of late-night wranglings, over drinks, under dying lightbulbs-- where did Ville belong, and would he ever get back there? Some of us were of the opinion that he would never find it, that he should just pour himself neatly off some dramatic beautiful building and end it all. Ville used to smile at that, but he disagreed, and so did I. The not-belonging, it was something that molded and ensconced and breathed out from Ville. His very eyes opened, black and beautiful, around that sense of displacement.

In March that year, before he went back to school in Berlin, he took me to the theatre and down some alleys and after that, to a bar. We stayed there for some late-night wranglings, and after a while, we went outside for cigarettes. Ville lit things on fire, bits of paper, even a little money, and then, very surprisingly, a firecracker from his bag. We ran away and watched it's fiery retort among the listing buildings. Standing in the alley, Ville took me by both shoulders and kissed me like a firecracker, and then fled with one final delightful, used-to smile. I would have had no trouble believing that he had sprouted viscous black wings and fluttered all the way to Germany, pouring beautifully and dramatically off the world, but he sent me a note a few days later about the train he had to catch and wouldn't I rather things went off that way? We corresponded for four years after that, seeing each other a few times in between, and we never did solve the mystery of where Ville belonged, and I never did quite get over that kiss.