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
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.
I fell for him as someone who falls for a drug. I fell for the wrinkles that framed his smile, for the voice that when whispered in my ears flooded my body with shots of pleasure, running through my veins with an unknown violence.
I fell for his body against mine, warming me like a second skin, making my breath stop for endless seconds and a soft scream come from my chest and lose itself In the darkness of the room.
I fell for his hands that when touched me made my blood pulse as if I were an organ, for his kiss that made my mind empty of sorrows and my eyes torpid.
I fell for the loneliness in the mornings, when his body detached from mine, leaving a bitter taste of absence in my mouth and a feeling of emptiness.