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. …
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.
He gazed out of the window. In the room facing his, he saw the woman with yellowish eyes. They were yellowish like amber, the shades inside them creating erotic designs. There was a white and thin curtain at her window. When the light was on, the cloth looked orange and a perfume would come from the night as if it was coming from her glassy, colored eyes.
He would wait for her to look at him, with those eyes composed with liquids. She finally turned to him, her look tinging the rain that has started to fall.
He opened the window. He wanted to ask for her name. But she turned off the light and disappeared into the darkness of her room.
There was now only the damp smell of concrete brought by the wind filling the void between them while her eyes remained yellowish for a stranger.
I wrote this text for my mom, who died years ago, now I am afraid of losing someone very close, another mother figure who is very sick with cancer.
It was not easy to be alone. Empty of unconditional love .
When she visited Europe years before, she was a teenager traveling with her mother, carrying maps and train schedules as if they were her homework.
Her mother died some months after this trip. She had to grow up. She had to learn how to survive, how to handle the lovers who came and go, how to be alone in an empty dark room, feverish, among the sweaty sheets and tears of sorrow.
She had to learn how to leave home, not to work and follow a daily schedule, but to have fun, to go to the movies, to learn how to surf under the sunset.
She had to learn to accept she could do it, but her mother couldn´t anymore. This right had been denied to her.
Now she was there, back in Europe, on a train, carrying maps and train schedules, watching shades of green enlivened by the summer.She looked at the seat beside her. It was empty. Empty of unconditional love.
It would be a long journey for her.