When we met, I was seriously taken: life seemed dull, intolerable and shameful, disgusting, and was convinced that he must kill later that night. I remember that I said: Nice and with permission, just kill myself and continue this wonderful romance. We were in a gallery and I explained the technique of the painter Francis Bacon. I turned on my heels to leave, but I felt that I sent a wireless message, something like do not go, I love you or what if my house have a coffee and I keep talking about the paintings of Francis. I looked you through the glass bobbing up and down, and on board a ship in rough seas, and I agreed to postpone my suicide, drinking coffee and you invited me to extend his walk to hell, others call life, provided you accompany me on the steep slope of the remainder of the year: Three months to fourteen days, said with confidence that he is brought inside out and with time at a glance the constellations are able to know the exact time and the precise coordinates of its location in the world: We are below the Tropic of Cancer, 18 degrees north latitude and 97 west longitude. Hell, it's true, we are in Mexico and there is no point sticking a shot: on the other side of this country do not pay vacation pay to those who are advanced, and it is up a room with sea view, because in our view there is no beyond or sea view or a room or bitch. You started to laugh. You laugh without restraint in what I considered the bulk of the death, truth decanted, the great outcome, and did so with a contagious laugh that death became a silly movie worn jokes, and between laughter and I slipped my hand laugh in the back, below the gauzy blouse that concealed your skin smooth, warm, perfectly machined. You come, because the wise few strokes and with a kiss that lasted for fifteen minutes, I dozed off for a little lips, and choking me, sealed the deal: By the end of the year, do you agree? Settled with a kiss again I had to free myself pushing you, then after another fifteen minutes threatened to keep lit the three months fourteen days covering our emerging deal. And stand up, I said, because in my carload of suspected drunken money you were going to charge me for your cravings. Forgive me, but at that moment I thought was a luxury Messalina, a trader in flesh curve. How could imagine, then, your marital status, your eight-cylinder car, your suite at the Paseo de la Reforma? I beat your face and the fresh scent of the night. How to dream, then, you were free, Samaritan conmisericordiosamente sweet to sink into your bed, in you and that love from which I awoke to orange juice, toasted bread and jar of honey that I poured over sheets, when you said good morning stuck in a white negligee that shows through your body.
What day is today?, I asked the employee to that habit of confusing guilty Monday to Sunday, but was a general day of rest, no less than 16 September, Independence Day, the parade down Reforma, the battalions of soldiers from twenty abreast with their muskets, their shells, their mortars, their armored tanks, their artillery and Doberman dogs. Was on shiny new motorcycles and marching bands playing the national anthem and the crowds cheering and sucking shaved of blackcurrant, guava or tamarind. And the first contingent arrived, you said to her forehead against the window. "The first contingent of what, I asked did not even know that your apartment was in Oslo street corner Paseo de Reforma. The first contingents of the parade, look, peek, and we were on the eighth floor and handsome uniforms, olive green and leaf green and brown spotted crossing area between the fences down there and whistles and balloons and pinwheels and eggs filled with flour flying from side to side. It was a day of patriotism and I did not even know your name: My name is Mara, said desprendiéndote the negligee for tying at the waist our tricolor flag at half mast. And taking you a fist to his mouth started a music of trumpets, bugles and imitation of military drums rattle coming up with their tensioned sidewalk to the room. His chest was exposed as the heroine of the painting by Delacroix, that freedom which leads the people, just make your breasts more erect and sharp, more like the headlights of a car late model strabismic illuminating the fog, there were a picture or a metaphor for the revolution, but a reality malleable, ductile, or to put duplicate once your breasts formidable made me forget the parade, my devotion to the flag, my childlike curiosity and raw awful I felt with his headache and nausea, and forced me to pounce on you like a stateless person who wanted nothing to naturalize as a resident you, citizen of your country deep or your English prodigal son abandoned at sunrise. We rolled on the floor and only sideways, stretching the neck and very biased, we see just the bunch of firemen, cowboys on horseback and Red Cross volunteer who traveled Reform with banners held high. When risen, garbage collectors brought up the rear dump sweeping the confetti, the manure, egg shells and containers of polyurethane.
So I met and started. I did not know that your department was hiding: a den first to mudabas you every time your husband was traveling and could not stand the solitude of your big house in San Angel, nor servile care of your ordering troops home who were behind you stanched the carnage that occurred in your presence. I then only knew your name, Mara, and your body: that body for twenty-seven years and roasted amassed by fifty lovers like you had perfected the taste and shaped silhouette that jaded to the point of making you go to galleries to rescue fake suicide that you speak of Francis Bacon and hell no sea and no view that certainly does not justify the rush to advance concluding that in any way must go. You know the essentials: so little that at the time any way you could have blonde impersonate without my noticing. Yet we both knew more than enough: they each had their commitments, their customs and made his life too, and that ours would last only three months to fourteen days and that neither should expect this length time of grace, that fixed-term romance, because at the slightest provocation, the first one started to mix forever with love, the first that any attempt to betray the death of what I love for life, or always stay with me, we would sink in hell, in the domestic stock of enzymes that break down all retroactively customary, even the best memories. Each his life, and we said we turned into one of those kisses that lasted over fifteen minutes in which we muscovado lips like licorice gum were those who had to start all the flavor. How do you penetrate that time, I held her hips and pushed hard to make you crack up to trap you in the depths of yourself, like a murderer, a bloodthirsty man fleeing the world through the slit in your body to the inside of you suffocating you crazy, you filled as ever. And came back to tell everyone his life, but this time shouting in a voice of freedom that I Pyrography on the soul and it was like a jolt of awareness that made me realize that there is nothing more than an instant. I emptied you, because that was because it would have been foolish to hold back and build a temple of touch to endeavor for you to seek your own pleasure. And that was, just that, my selfish passion, my personal satisfaction, which gave back to yourself and orgasm yours, completely yours and nobody else. You fell asleep without saying anything, without worrying about me, that total indifference yen at that offer the bare back, I found more love than he had found in my whole damn life cuddles and pious little women I puffed pillows and quilts covering me with her maternal love. That night I squatted beside you, I settled into a ball and I was shivering with the side within walking distance of your sex. After an hour aceda checked how our love, how to dry in your legs leaving a trail crisp white paint, until I too boring to look at your skin, but loving you, I missed a few dreams nebulae in I knew nobody, where nobody had heard of you, and the only living beings holes, water tanks holes, repeating your name with reverb. In the beginning
anything filled us with surprise: How, you are married, asked me with laughter, and your husband, a millionaire liberal who pampers you and meets your every whim? And you, an art critic? Yes, and I am a tennis player and swordsman and gladiator and Wednesday I'll rent a scapegoat for some pagan ritual devoid of martyrs, but now I am determined to found a new science: you are the object of study, I find your keys physiological body and the theorems derived from the axiom that you are a blonde, young and rich. And I put a ruler to measure yourself, but your belly growing irrational and arbitrary decreased by your laughter, and then we tearing his clothes and nobody cared and the emerging "maralogía" flexible and extent of your way to moan, or the average number of inputs and outputs needed to rip the cry of each his life. But sometimes, I sneak out with her shirt unbuttoned, because that evening you claimed your husband to go to a meeting of the society to which I was unable to attend the bitten lip, swollen like a black. A perfectly black and perfectly white blonde, told me when I applied an ice cube wrapped in the scarf that you had taken the bag and car keys in hand send me a flying kiss at the door and you were going. I was down Reforma, took a truck and when I sat in my house to write the review of Francis Bacon and the gallery where I met you, I came the desire to remember: the nose sank into my palms to find your perfume, but you no longer smelled, smelled of cigarettes and rail and truck then, I had no other recourse than to imagine where you were, "between what people say what words" blotted hundreds of pages until I finally managed to make literature a passport to sneak in your world: and there you were, Mara, select your meeting dressed in black throughout, with a diamond necklace and the natured of you hanging your husband as a rough bracelet. Nonstop talking to a group of people about Francis Bacon: the bleakness of his oils, the qualities that caught the different textures of the crisis of the soul and wrings the way figures to get them to bleed. Got everybody's embedded in your presentation outstanding, fascinated with your opinions. A once in a while, your husband gave you full of pride discrete grips on the arm were the center of the party, your success will encourage you to follow, even I saw you wonder through my glass, my admiration for you grow every second : developing the exact aesthetic categories to speak of Bacon, the adjectives you used accurate until, unable any longer, I left my dungeon of silence and raising my I proposed a toast drink. Your friends turned surprised and I repeated: Here's to Mara. All without exception raised his glass and drank a sip your confusion, your eyes rounded disbelief. I wanted to ask why he was there, how he had come, but a gust of wind rearranged the syllables of your words and all we heard a troubled I present to you ... my art history teacher, and did not mention my name, because despite having talked so much we quiet too and still did not know how to call. Paul Reyes said, and your husband's fingers strangled me so hard that spread in the air the unmistakable aroma of your perfume and a sour smell truck tube.
I do not like spying on me, you said when we met at the Department of Reform. I wanted to explain my job as a critic, my role as an intellectual, I was allowed access to certain social spheres, but did not want notes: according to you, I had appeared at the meeting because of a possessive impulses which violates the each with his life was the basis for the three months to fourteen days would last our agreement, but I had hired to not lack topics of conversation, if someone needed a point or a fun idea. I realized it was absurd to insist on the details of my profession and I accepted that costume jealous lover who offered me: it seemed romantic and so invented the story that had jumped fences, dogs poisoned and forced windows to get to the scene in which your husband almost broken finger me: I showed you and bruise you sorry. The weekend will be ours, you said, and at least I know that my name was Paul.
Since then I tried to meet you outside the department, and that in itself were a lot of costumes that would put me to increase my costumes with the costumes of Othello coming out of the closet of your past conventional and jealous lovers. I would rather by other routes, wherever you were physically impossible: Metro tunnels, the suburbs, eating at diners, I locked myself in a cheap hotel room and spent the afternoon I got into my house to make efforts to not think about you, not to violate the layers of reality appearing suddenly in your dining room table as an intruder fell from the sky or in the middle of your bed between your husband and you, because if you raided my memory on the dinner or at bedtime because I was harassing you, because did not support the independence of your life or privacy of your business. I should not poke anywhere where you do not want, for it was the department to see us there, away from your husband and eight floors of the world. He defended your freedom, you the idea of \u200b\u200bbeing bumped and falling in love with me, however, I found it wonderful to sleep with the promise of three months fourteen days, as though he had been a month and the weather was going to run out, we could extend it, hang the Annex that would give us like, why stick to what place? Not forever, never to forever, but so far come up where I could go without crutches, smoothly: a year or two, which reached. And stop talking, I said, the better closer, and this time, as if only death could break away, I knew all your farm, your woman's song without words, your body without recesses banned, and I knew beyond the nature and the order, in that place of transgression where the blood is fused with the sperm and the spirit is shaken like a raging animal that unseen hands hang. We never went and never came back further to show that courage, that craving suicide tear you skin, the body open up wide to keep me, because we were not a pair of lovers copulating, but a mess of mutilated beings to complete were grafted: it was a Siamese coupling with veins and tangled breaths. We never went further. And perhaps because all things have a peak, a pinnacle, an apex and unsurpassable, was to continue beyond that we had to start the descent, your hugs are weakened, squeeze your way abated, and you need to see me at any time did you slowing down.
I did everything to keep you excited, but the second month it seemed impossible to tackle your annoyance, looked at the clock, tardiness, I had a headache, you were menstruating or needed to write some letters. And I, however, planned what was to tell you how to fill every minute that I gave, looked the biggest lies, the more effective erotic paraphernalia and a schedule of unprecedented occurrence for every occasion. The novelty, however, went into orbit of reducible and glided through the oval of the vicious circles that were able to discover everything. I felt an obligation to have fun: if you assailed the idea that one day would have to grow old, drafted an initiative requiring that Chambers declared disaster area you and me, victim yours if you wanted an orgasm at a distance, I sat in the edge of the bed to improvise exciting tale in which adjusted the duration of the scenes at your own pace, and just driving your imagination through your favorite perversions they invented others, which then suspended the literature and the world: reached the top, inside of your body drops condensed with violence leaving without leaving you, but I was bored, bored you travel, horse walks, the perception torn stimulants, as neither do the impossible colors starry or faster than the spiral tense suddenly shot into the abyss, and the music becomes tangible and smeared as a cooling ointment on the ear drum, nothing, not even the peyote you made another in front of you and you managed to distract allowed to be ubiquitous.
It was not me or your life with me. You are at least hateful in the world, told me. They were, perhaps, Francis Bacon, the monotonous parade of soldiers or pictures, the succession of moments even, cut from the same cloth: all unique but identical: it was the time.
But until the time is up: one day three months fourteen days came to an end and, as he did two weeks since we met, I thought that gave me a justification to return to your apartment, opened the door, I sat down to wait, I poured a glass, I saw through it to the street, I entered the room, I remembered your body, your favorite phrase: each his life, an ashtray filled with cigarette butts, I looked at the time, walk back and forth, I looked at the clock, the street, the bedroom. Evening and dawn. In the morning like a drunken man who walked away from reform.
Love Story X-ray taken of my book
God does play dice
0 comments:
Post a Comment