On the way to the sea, she talks about her new painting and whether to paint the thief first or the moon. She talks of her first painting and you think about the last lovemaking. She pulls you closer and tells you about her hometown. And her house, which has jasmine growing in all corners and the swing on the terrace.
Archive for the category Fiction
Fiction stories and poems by the Gaysi to be read by all.
I want to be with you without artifice without agenda without dependence without financial ties.
scattered memories, captured in the mid vein of my life, starts to play when I declare an end leave a sharp stain on my wet bleeding heart
We meet because we know we need to talk about 'us'. I know I should just walk away. You think you've grown to understand me. I think you've grown to believe in a twisted image of me in your head which grips at my lungs and squeezes the air out of them. You think I've stopped trying to understand you. I think I would hate myself if I ever had the audacity to say that I did.
I knew I had shake out myself out of this ridiculous captivation. What were the chances I was to ever see her again? Nada. Zilch, My head screamed. But being the stuffy person I was – I hadn’t allowed myself the charm of being enamored with someone for a long long time. And I decided, This woman - I may as well feel her a wee bit.
After a long day at work, a face-wash and a perfume bath I went to meet her for drinks. It was Friday night and the place was packed, except the two empty seats at the bar. She entered a couple of minutes after, her hair tied in a bun, lugging a big suitcase. We smiled, we hugged and we ordered our drinks.
Save me from myself as I watch the rain come down yet again while you sleep next to me Just turn around and kiss me!
But on this regular, bright one, she woke me up gently… A lingering kiss… Tentative nuzzles on my neck. And then smoothing her hands way down my legs still tangled with hers.
The first ones you tiptoe around by sinking your teeth hard into chunks of work, allowing yourself no space to breathe. For the next ones, you remember Elizabeth George's latest schizophrenic character; and no, you don't draw angels on your walls (you would, if you could), you stick your earphones into your ears and play music. Pity all of it makes you miss more.
The door opened… and she found herself staring into a set of brown eyes, short hair and a wide smile. Arnika held out the flowers. ‘These are for you,’ with a tentative smile! The lights were dim. The loudspeakers belted out a romantic song. And the sofas looked non-threatening.
She had me unwrapped and threw my scarf onto the couch. I had to touch her. She placed her hands on my waist, and I cradled her cheeks with my hands. I stared at her, taking in the details that were both blurry and new. My eyes wandered up that dusky collarbone, the sinewy muscles of her neck, the soft cheeks I caressed, the firm nose … her eyes.
The candles by the window on the inside of the restaurant cast long shadows on her face as they flickered where we stood. I sensed her joie de vivre had been replaced by an enchanting self-possession which she radiated in waves. I watched her study me closely. She didn’t claim any excuse to do so, She just did.
My eyes scanned the room from my perch slowly. There were some business suits unwinding after a long day, an older couple with a grandson and a few others spotting the room. They came to rest on the two women who now occupied a small table. The one of whom I had a frontal view wore a pinstriped pantsuit with pearls. I never understood those who wore pearls.
Her eyes darted to my lips and to this day, I don’t know who moved first but our lips were upon each other. Just touching, barely moving. She inhaled deeply and I pursed my lips. I enfolded hers in mine, enjoying the soft wet texture. She gently ran her tongue along my upper lip, I briefly opened mine. She did it again.
I opened my eyes and saw the ceiling holding the wisdom to me, “ futuro y pasado, la verdad de este momento; Teje un hilo solo”. It meant “Future and past, The truth of this moment; Weaves a single thread”. ??My mind wandered to the years gone by. To the moment when I had seen her for the first time with my lover.
Do you forget? I exist. I existed?
She was lying on my narrow bed. Reading. That book I’d bought yesterday. Her reading glasses were perched on the end of her nose, her brow scrunching up occasionally, her chest gently rising and falling with each breath. I felt playful and a bit jealous. Like I wanted her to all to myself. Like that book was stealing her away from me. And she was on “my” bed, wasn’t she ? How was that fair ?
I am not going to share your joy and sorrow till you are ready to partake mine. I am not going to give you all till you meet me halfway down the road.
Planting a thousand lingering kisses on her neck and shoulder; I slowly moved down and my mouth reached the base of her spine. This was not how I had imagined our first love making seven years ago.
I am going away to get off your drug of intoxication before one more whiff blows my way.