Honey

His legs turned left and mine right, walking towards the warmth of my house, his coordinates I knew no longer. Before that his legs turned east before him. I said goodbye at the door; I climbed the stairs to my room, to clean traces of everything that exploded that day. Sorry to say, but our explosion did not end in a mere sexual act.


I can begin by telling you how it all began because I started from the end, or an intermediate, depriving myself of advancing.


The crystals covered his eyes and his beard did not cover his smile. The green made him speak and the coat did not take away his cold. His hand brushed against me, and I do not mean just my hand— brushed against my cold, my skin, my night, even against my will. I had a stupid look, but did not pay attention, even avoided him. Just trying to concentrate on cigarettes and white clouds of smoke that we formed. I preferred to see his breath or mine, or both, taking a single shape or watching the stars that fell, to see his face, and not that it was ugly but I did not want to lose myself in the dialogue of a person or his eyes. I was afraid to even see your moles, count them, convinced that present was the number indicated, that a man should have on his face—he preferred to close his eyes.


To my luck, he was bad at talking—at least there was no wording, with which I had to take care. I took refuge on his chest, down his arms, our noses connected, began to rub against one another, to open the way to dialogue kisses. Our noses dripped, the cold became increasingly unbearable, and I was bored, increasingly unable to find a topic of interest for us.


Night loaded with a thick sexual tension, that apparently both wanted to avoid.


Probably it was the weather, the only thing I wanted was to kiss him, wrap myself in his arms, and forget the cold.


Blessed be the sale of cigarettes and the fact that my lighter still had fluid.


Ice on cars, and the stupid running of stars, resulted in one of those romantic scenes that appear in films. We avoid it at all costs, being the main actors in a series’ scenes, that ultimately leave you confused and fucking people, deciding to name it love. We were not in love, did not even like each other, we were just a couple of rogues that would not stop biting lips and necks, kissing their nerves. Kisses kill cold.


Night, painted to become stormy and that one of us did not go home.


The temperature dropped lower and lower, we decided to get out of the park where we had spent hours sitting under the trees, complaining about weather, and had no charge on our phones.


We ran towards my house to get warm, you passed straight into my room, the armchair did not want to know much we wanted to lie down. I let him into my bed and covered us with my blankets. Smoked enough to leave the lungs dry. I leaned against his chest, even ended up shirtless; took one of the books I had lying around us, read sentences from, ‘The Perks of Being a Wallflower’; put on music, introduced you to Bobby Darin and forced you to dance with me to, ‘Beyond the Sea’.


I think, we began to know one another; we had hours without kissing; really began to talk; to laugh at the incoherencies of each other. I counted the moles on his back, his personal atlas was posed on mine.


Then everything was blues, and jazz, around the room.


We ran around the house, took out a bottle of vodka, took a few shots straight from the bottle, began to scratch the walls of my room with chalk.


The damned cold, I did not know where it was, and the night was one of those situations in life that does not want to, or can stop laughing. I got lost in his eyes, had more than twenty minutes without saying anything, just danced, played around, drank, and we smiled, then you asked what had happened.


My Answer:


"Honey you are a flight of laughter, monotony breaks you and you come to cover this with your light. Your silence gives us time to pause and think that everything has lasted a little longer." Then—it was my sentence—he laughed and said,


"Damn, what time is it? Fuck, almost six am.”


We said goodbye at the door, and we kissed as if we were set to extinguish. All that had exploded had been me. I did not recognize myself. I did not know whether to clean the chalk off the walls. I was alone and I still could not stop laughing at all the disaster that had made us happy. I could not believe morning had come and my laughter continued.


We spent days without talking.


One night we met at a party. There was liquor, lots of MDMA everywhere, and Lucy conquered everyone. We jumped around like crazy. It had those kinds of girls who ended up making stupid mistakes like taking off their blouse, kissing strangers; had euphoria and a lot of screaming, a lot of smoke and colored lights with epileptic seizures. It was one of those nights, where you get to your house bathed in sweat or some unknown substance. You danced with a lot of people whom, you had no fucking idea who they could be.


He smiled from afar. I looked at him in a way which, can only be seen in a volcanic eruption on a winter night. He came, just to say goodbye. He said maybe, we would not see each other for a while.


I did not fall in love, I did not like it—I can say that it is good, the way he moved his lips; and that he had never danced to jazz before made it sensational; the only thing I liked about him is that he left before a mishap occurred and we returned to a perfect scene, but, not like one from a silly love movie.


He said goodbye with a hug, a kiss on the cheek and saying, "You have the darkest of eyes here. Thanks, darling."