Short, straight, burnt caramel hair. I do not know of her eyes, neither their form nor their colour. Her smirk forced me to lower my chin while smiling back. I only observed her laughter and few of her gestures. I’ve also heard her curse and her face was extremely calm. She excused herself with a deep breath.
Later today, she walked by, eyes on the ground, a little bit tired, that’s how she seemed to me. Before that, she came again in the room. This time I looked at her eyes when her glare was focusing elsewhere. I saw the same burnt caramel colour.
Her shirt was too chaotic, unfit, out of her standards. It amazes me how easily she changes. Her sceptical staring permitted me to watch her closer. The moment she laughed I tried to take my eyes of her but still, the chaotic shirt caught my eye.
I was telling you about earlier when she walked by me. She gave me a quick look but I did not let our eyes meet, I narrowed my chin to the ground once again. The skin on the back of my neck tightened.
It was something special about this woman, a mystery I will not understand but I wish I could explore.
The night was terrifying and silent. The void let the other emotions burst freely on the surface. It was the first time in months that a raindrop touched the earth without any hesitation. It fell abruptly from the eye and the second one followed. I was feeling the humidity in the air days now, but the heart of stone did not believe in giving in. The mind of the sinner refused to drown and fought hard to unravel the tangled thoughts. The meteorologists and my heart had predicted a thunderstorm. After the first raindrops, the others followed easily. It was hard to sham the pain as every thunder hit the bones of the thorax. The filmstrip seemed infinite. Myself and the tawny woman, both rubbed our forehead and covered our eyes. I could feel the skin under my nails hurting but the rain had to be stopped. I had created an ocean in which my sadness could reflect itself as if it had taken a human form; fine beauty, long curly hair, sparkling eyes. I wondered what is the source of that sparkle; radiating happiness, disturbing melancholy or painful regret?
Am mărginit iubirea cu o bordură de fier, am transofrmat-o in praf, am adunat-o din toate colțurile sufletului meu, am curațat-o și ți-am dat un pic sa guști. Ai luat din ea un vârf de linguriță și ai atins cu vârful limbi. Ți-a fost frică să iei mai mult. Nu ți-am reproșat nimic. Te-am lăsat să faci ce vrei cu ea. Când ai simțit gustul picant, ai cerut mai mult. Nu am zis nimic, ți-am dat. Am spart-o din nou in bucațele mai mici, atât de mici incât sa-ți fie usor să o plimbi prin gură. Mă uitam la tine mirată cum iți străluceau ochii când saliva ta te dezgusta in lipsa iubirii mele. Am făcut ochii mari dar fără să comentez ți-am mai dat. In ritmul ăsta, ai reusit să mă lași fără iubire. Mă porți în tine in fiecare clipă. Îmi porți iubirea, oarecum furată, în sânge. Mă întreb uneori dacă te incomodează. Nu te doare sa trăiești cu iubirea oamenilor, ființă criminală? Ți-am cerut doar să ai grijă de a mea, să nu o plimbi prin alte paturi și să nu lași pe nimeni să calce pe ea. Sper că măcar asta ai fost in stare să faci.
Într-o seară friguroasă, ți-am cerut și eu la rândul meu, un strop din a ta. Am vrut doar să văd cum mi-ar sta cu ea în mine. M-am uitat in ochii tăi și am observat cum sufletul tău se scufundă în oceanul temerilor tale. Îti admiram frica; ai lăsat-o liberă să o privesc. Am zâmbit și te-am luat de mâna dreaptă ce incepuse să-și crească temperatura. Ți-am lăsat iubirea în pace și ți-am cerut să mă lași să-ți iau frica. Sufletul tău a început să plutească din nou și respirația ta s-a ușurat. Așa ai facut. Ai transformat frica ce-ți sufoca sufletul in nisip fin, ai suflat cât să-mi ajungă în toate colțurile lipsite de iubire și mi-ai cerut să fiu atentă când plec cu ea. Nu ți-am mai cerut iubirea, mi-a fost de ajuns că ai avut incredere să mă lași să-ți dărâm zidurile. Să știi că acum te plimbi dezbrăcată prin lume și numai eu te pot îmbrăca din nou. Dacă nu mai reziști, aștept să-mi ceri frica înapoi. Ți-o voi da necondiționat dar să ai grijă când o pui la loc; poate iubirea mea crește și nu mai ai unde. Ce faci? Îmi dai iubirea înapoi? N-ai cum. Nu o să mai aibă loc nici la mine, căci mi-ai luat temerile tale și în mine a intrat iubirea altcuiva; un narcisist ce îi era frică să și-o țină în el. Așa că lasă-mi temerile tale și dacă nu mai poți, transformă iubirea mea în fericire și plimbă-te cu ea dezbracată. Așa nu se ia nimeni de tine. Fericită.
Inspiration came only through his fingers when he touched feelings. Literally. Only the moments that made him shiver of fear or happiness gave him words to put on a paper. He could stay with the pen in the hand as many nights as he could stay awake without writing a single word on paper. He knew what he had to write. He knew what he felt. He knew the story. But the images were blurred in his mind and words wouldn’t come out of his mouth. Lines and lines were blocked in his mind. It was disappointing for him not to write. He was so young and ready to take upon life.
That cold winter night was the 6th he hadn’t slept. Six days and nights he stood above his desk staring at a blank paper. The 365-pages book he planned to write was minus 6. He lost six days of that year staring at a little dot on the corner of the blank page letting words passing through his mind, without letting them be on a paper. In a rush he grabbed his coat and the door behind him hit so hard, it woke up his dog which was sleeping nearby the fireplace. Pitt, that’s our future writer’s name, made a first step on the front stairs and he stopped when he saw the snow. It was a stormy weather, empty streets, only a couple of days after Christmas. It was dark outside and the houses’ windows were foggy. He decided to walk. He passed nearby the baker’s shop, the grocery shop. No human soul on the view. Finally he reached the coffee shop around the corner. It’s windows were foggy too and the view inside wasn’t clear. Only a lonely woman standing at the bar could be seen through the fogginess. He decided to walk in. He had days to interact with people. Some voice from far away said “Pitt!”. He made his eyes small to see who it was. It was his drunk neighbor who let everyone know the name of our writer. Pitt raised his hand as a sign of hello and continued his way to the bar. He ordered his usual scotch. His mind blurred again and his eyes got a neutral look, like staring at nowhere.
Our Pitt was good-looking and so mysterious. I guess that’s his magnetism. His eyes, green, his smile, crystal clear and his body language deceiving. He looked like the man who wouldn’t have a problem. Who would think that actually behind his richness he would hide so misery. Yeah, I forgot to mention. He was rich. You may wonder why would he be so disappointed if he couldn’t write. He had the money to live, why would he need a job? The answer is kind of complicated. His wealth came from his family. That was something he always hated. He wanted to be something. He wanted to create and give the world something significant that he would be remembered about after his death. Even from a young age, that were his plans. Until someday, when he met love and as usual it got complicated. He had heard about love but he never believed in it. Of course, that until the day he realized what love means for him. That love inspired him. Words were easy. He got fluent. Nothing could stop his mind producing. But it seems, there was something that could make it – love -. It reborn him and then killed him softly. It has been three months since Lizzie left him and the look on his face remained still since then. He had no expression. The scotch hit the bar hard when he drunk the last drop. The lonely woman next to him gave him a straight look into the eye. Pitt suddenly felt something. Perhaps it wasn’t love from the first sight, neither happiness, not even attraction. It was a strange feeling. I’d say it was a desire to talk to someone. He decided to give it a shot and gave her a smile. It was a miracle after so much time. He finally had an expression on his face. Maybe the smile was fake, though it was a start. It was sign, that his misery might be over. Sabrina, said the woman and smiled back. Without letting him spill his name she continued by saying; “Yes, Pitt, I know, I heard”. He smiled again and asked to buy her a drink. Obviously she accepted. And that’s how hope knocked his door again…
TO BE CONTINUED…