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.
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.
He drank a gulp of vodka and put the glass on the window sill. There was still some of the transparent liquid left. He liked to do that, watch the day beginning to break on that glass, the drink touched by sun. But it would be a long journey into the night.
He tried to distinguish the shapes of his violin in the room, he had given up the candles because of the mournful look they brought to the place, his instrument turned into a ghost.
The loudest sound heard there came from the voices of the women wandering the streets. He would like to go there, talk to them. But he knew he would never go.
When the morning came, the voices were not heard anymore. The trees were motionless under the limpid sky. There was no wind, only a presage of sun and a coloured glass of vodka.
It was only him and his violin now, and the symphony of the voices echo in the room.
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.
She was sitting at the garden. The grass was still. A smell of summer in the air. A boy and a girl were playing hide and seek around a white marblestone crafted fountain. The girl was wearing a pink T shirt matching her sneakers. The boy was all dressed in navy blue. The girl seemed upset because she had fell down. The boy was staring at her with clueless eyes and half- open lips. She could hear their muffled voices and the soft sound of the water against the marblestone.
She was bored with the ordinariness of life in the countryside. She would like to be on the beach. She closed her eyes and framed this moment. The sand was still. A smell of summer in the air. There was a boy and a girl playing hide and seek around a sand castle. The girl was upset because she had fell down. She could hear their muffled voices and the soft sound of the waves against the shore.
She opened her eyes, lit a cigarette. She was smiling now, listening to the soft sound of the water against the marblestone, watching a boy and a girl play hide and seek and a black and yellow butterfly flutter around them.
When the clouds moved away, the gray of the pebbles rose up to her head, the green of the moisture became darker, the marks of rain appearing right under her eyes were more visible. He noticed the shadow of her face bent on the ground, the dark corners the sun had never reached. He touched her breasts, they were warm, although they had lived for centuries without love. And he imagined why the sculptor had made her that way, looking down, the centuries reduced to pebbles, to the leaves running in the autumn and at the men’s feet. She had never seen a man’s face; had never had a lover.