madzar32@hotmail.com (a short story)

More than ten years ago, I think it was the winter of '98, when the global network was still into its childhood years, and far from the 'peeping tom' years that followed, I opened an e-mail address. Actually, my friend M. that worked in an internet-cafe opened it for me. "Try with madzar" I told him, "because of the surname". "It's busy" answered M. after checking on the computer. "Is madzar32 ok?" he said. "It's all right" I told him without even thinking.

Now, all that would have been long forgotten and the e-mail address would have drown into the sea of zeros and ones if I deleted it, but I didn't. And now, especially now, something is intriguing me. The number 32. You ask why. How can a two digit number upset me. What is so threatening in that number? Actually there is. Because as I write this, there are just two hours left till my 32 birthday and that little detail, that worthless number doesn't give me peace. All kinds of scenarios are running through my head. Is there any meaning to the number? Can it be that my friend M. was led by an unseen force, a whisper in his ears to choose that number? Is something bad going to happen, an accident perhaps?

* * *

The night is cold and the sky sprinkles light snowflakes that hesitantly fall to the ground before they are gone forever. (Maybe they hesitate and fall sadly cause there is no one to watch them, no one to be amazed by them). The clock on my lap-top shows 00:41. That means that it's already my 33rd birthday and I'm still alive. Now I can peacefully write the last sentence of this short story, close my lap-top and go to bed.