It was his last day in town, he was now under the crepuscular sky trying to disguise his disappointment towards the silence between him and the city. He thought about silence not as a concept linked to sound, but as the emptiness of expectations, a void. His needs hadn´t been fullfilled the days he had been there.
He was craving for a love affair but everything he could get was falling in love with a character he had met during the reading of a rare book. She was a piece of fiction, she was the dream which we all have about trespassing the boundaries life imposes to us. The character could do whatever she wanted, there were no limits to what she could do, she would repeat her actions everytime a reader would cast a eye on her lines. And then that´s what everyone calls fiction, living and living in those pages while he, who was not a piece of fiction, was there, empty under the crepuscular sky.
She crossed the room by a moonlight beam. Her hair was fastened and she was wearing a blue, transparent dress. The red flowers on the cloth gained movement as she walked, almost coming off her slim body. He could imagine, through her dress, the nuances of her skin..
He asked her to dance. Her eyes were brown and when she closed them,the lashes rested on her face like the soft wings of a butterlfy fluttering there for a fraction of second, her eyelids trembling as if she was dreaming. Her glossy lips were closed, wordless.
He could feel her sweaty hands against his. He was in love. He only wanted to dance with her and wait until her hair was gray, his hands got feeble around her wrist, and the flowers on her dress faded away against his chest
Dusk. The orange stripe which spread across the sky resembled a languid body. Night was falling slowly. He gazed at the lifeless shapes outside and imagined a woman there, trying to seduce them, lying down with them in the murkiness of the hours. He himself was lost in the shadows, his deliriums and desires taking over his body like a drug. He watched the last sun’s rays beaming down, isolated from the crepuscular sky, creating a veil. He could imagine a movement in that veil as if the woman were an odalisk dancing to him. He stayed looking until this imaginary lover disappeared and night finally fell and, like a mantle, doused that spectacle of pleasure with darkness.
She was there, on the beach, listening to the sound of the waves which were breaking on the shore like an explosion of erotic sounds on warm summer nights.
Yet the beach was empty of voices.
She was drawing faces on a canvas, colored moves that were stumbling on the surface like drunk couples among sheets.
Yet, the beach was empty of lovers.
She was waiting for the dark hours to slowly swallow that landscape, to slowly swallow her sorrows and happy memories, but she had none of them. She was just.empty. Empty like that beach in the evening.
She was found by him wandering as a ghost, looking for the man who had hurt her. She carried scars like tracks which could be seen when under the dead light of a streetlamp.
She entered an old and sombre building. He followed her and discovered an entire word there, in front of a half-opened door. A candle laid on a softwood bedside table where the shadow of a dress, hung on a wordrobe door, fell on. From where he was, he couldn´t see the woman but could hear her shuffling, see the candle flame wave when she walked. Then she saw him entering the room. She made such an abrupt movement that the candle went out, the lugubrious smoke flooding in the air.
Only their voices could be heard and when he finally saw her face, he realized there were no scars there, only pain.
She was there near the window. He could see her backwards, her spine, the vivid shape of a salamander. The first sun beams running on her body as waves in a coulourful sea. He had never known anyone like her.
He was there, his head on the pillow, the sheets still like lifeless leaves resting on an empty street. Emptiness. That´s what he felt when he closed his eyes and fully realized she was ready to leave him.
She was still backwards, he could see her face reflected in the window pane, he tried to draw her features on his mind and frame them there, craving for them to escape the hands of time.
But he couldn´t do it. He knew that not only her features but also her shape, voice, and all she represented to him would fade away, would be asphyxiated.
When she was finally gone, he looked at the room, empty of her feminine figure. There was a subtle happiness though. She had left a perfume in the air. He knew he would always have her scent and the sultry memories.
He didn´t want much more from life, afterall.
What´s in a Tiffany blue box?
A heart that should be warmed, the first letter of a lover´s name, the lock to one´s feelings, a marriage that has endured, a much expected birth, an unexpected engagement, the end of a Christmas night, a trivial birthday party among loved ones, a prelude to love making, a confession.
Trust and gold ironically interwoven.
Watching Breakfast at Tiffany´s on a Friday night pretending to be happy just because nobody asked.
Or just a foolish way to make amends for the loss of intimacy.