a page of my book, hope you like it
The woman passed her hand through her gray hair, her fingers sliding down the strands until they reached a knot. Her head bended slightly to the right, under the weight of her thin and wrinkled arm. She fixed her eyes on a spot on the wall, the inert covering of the dark room. Small points of light were dancing there, like the eyes of a wolf – a dark hunter, captured by the moon, an unfaithful lover. And she could see those eyes laughing at her old and crippled body, at her loneliness made even more depressing by the creaking sound of the rocking chair. Sometimes, she put her hand to her throat, stifled and astonished, unable to hear her own voice, begging the persistent fever to grant her just a few more days of life. And her soul descended into a deep pit of echoes, her long dress of thick black material was caught under the legs of the chair, muffling the only sound that kept her in the world of the living, as though that old house, with many sparsely furnished rooms, could be associated with the living. For her it was a mortuary chamber without luxury, jewels or eyes of precious stones reflecting the twilight, idol of the dead. But the wolf that was staring at her, bodiless and featureless, hid, in its entrails of imaginary animal, a young lover. A man who people said had never existed but whose touch she still kept in her bosom. That was when she placed her fingers between her breasts and felt a palpitation, the thin skin covering her bones, exuding bitterness, the taste of pain. And the beads of sweat continued to moisten her body, making it tremble when they were touched by the cold wind blewing in from the garden as though they knew they had not much time left. …
He had always been so shy. He was there now, staring at the woman he had always loved, his throat dry, his saliva tasteless. He began to sweat, his hands were chilled. She was watching him as if she was studying every little movement of his muscles, as if they could tell a story in the form of pulsing moments under his skin. Every fragment of the prelude to their sex was emerging from this moment they took to stare at each other.
There was silence between them. They could only hear the quiver of the window – panes. And only the light of a candle could save them from the darkness of the room.
They had wine, drops running from the corner of their mouths, a fluid of pleasure. They ran as sensually as the candle wax on the table, melting at the foot of the candlestick. And he undressed that candle with his eyes, he imagined it as his lover with her soft skin, the glimmering flame now brightening her face and hair.
As the flame of the candle was finally extinguished, their bodies were ready to fulfill the emptiness of their pleasure.
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.