Another one

A soft melody flows from my turntable and fills the living room, bathed in amber light. Sitting on the couch, a glass of rum in hand, I slip into an almost meditative state. The sound, slightly rough in texture, like a fire crackling in the fireplace, carries me far away: beyond my daily worries, beyond the image of my mother that has haunted me for the past fifteen years.

Suddenly, my phone vibrates. A flurry of messages shatters the serenity of the evening, piercing it like knife stabs, like the black specks of birds sullying the clarity of the blue sky.

Her again — an English tourist I had taken on a night swim a couple of weeks ago. Why can’t she ever put her thoughts in a single sentence and send just one text? She always needs several rounds of messages, like bullets aimed at the heart.

I take a small sip and read her texts. There’s almost no sense in what she writes. She tries to practice her French with me, but she’d better not. “Oui, j’en veux” : is it a reply to the question I asked her a few days ago? Never mind. I simply tell her to come. Immediately. She obeys, of course. Sometimes, with girls, it doesn’t even take much effort.

I peer out the window and see her approaching. I’ve watched her pass by my place countless times before. Each time, I sense her gaze, ready to betray her, ready to dart suddenly toward my windows. I can feel her holding back, with all her strength, from looking up. Fear stops her. The fear of catching a glimpse of my silhouette, of meeting my penetrating gaze as it follows her every step. The fear that I’ll realize she’s deliberately taking a longer route, making a detour, just to pass by my apartment, by her forbidden fruit.

She also dreads seeing another girl at the window, wrapped in a bedsheet, hair tousled, lipstick smudged. Like her, some time ago. She dreads realizing she isn’t unique: not the only one to visit my apartment, not the only one to desire me, not the only one I find desirable. In the end, she fears realizing that she’s just another one.

“I’m downstairs,” she texts. I head to the intercom to let her in. I can almost feel her joy, her excitement, as she slips inside the building. I open the door: the click of her heels echoes as she climbs to the second floor. I start the countdown… six, five, four, three, two, one… there she is.

“Your place is so cozy,” she says, her foreign accent highlighting her words, a broad smile on her face. “I love the light! I have the same bulbs in my studio,” she continues, glancing around the living room.

I say nothing and just stare at her face, framed by her dark hair tied up in a bun. Her red lips give her an almost provocative look. They seem to scream: “I’m ready… Fuck me.”

I gesture for her to undress. She insists I take the lead. I help her with the waist ribbon, and the dress slides down, revealing her pale, cream-colored flesh, set off by black lace stockings. The southern sun has not yet touched her northern skin.

I lead her to the couch and sit down. She kneels between my legs. She undoes the belt and the buttons, letting her soft hands explore inside my boxers. I close my eyes and tilt my head back as she pulls out my cock. She teases it with the tip of her tongue and slides it all along before taking care of my balls. She licks them and takes them into her mouth. Then, she moves up and engulfs my cock. Her movements become more intense. I undo her bun and grab her by her flowing brown hair to pull her away from my thing for a few moments and fix my eyes on hers. I make her look at me deeply: she seems sublime, and I lose myself in her dark, turbulent eyes, like a stormy night. Then I draw her mouth to my groin again. After a moment, I pull my cock away to let her breathe. She chokes, a stream of saliva pouring from her. I let her suck me again, guiding her gaze with mine.

Time suspends. I wish this moment could last forever. She’s so beautiful… and fragile in her beauty.

I want her to always be like this, for her charm to be eternal, her being mine. Always in my possession, without limit of time. That’s what she answered me when I asked how long she was going to stay in the South: “There’s no limit!”

But everything has limits. She will stay only until she starts to get bored, until her beauty begins to fade. She will go home or somewhere else. She won’t stay here her whole life, as she imagines now, certainly not with me.

The other day, she told me that before, she had never seen so many old people in the streets — she doesn’t know it yet, but it is always the same at the end of the season: young tourists leave, only retirees remain. She added that it made her accept aging.

Perhaps it is I who will not be able to endure her aging, her eclipse, her decay.

And there I watch her pressed against my crotch, giving me pleasure. But I already know that the end is imminent. Time works against us. Her skin will crack, and countless wrinkles will cover her body, like what happens to old oil paintings. I savor her face, still so fresh, so blooming. Suddenly, it merges with my mother’s — the one who left me so long ago —so I almost smell mourning around us. Everything crumbles like a wave of dust; she turns into a ghost of the past.

I come into her mouth, fill it with my sperm, while her eyes are full of my venom.

She swallows everything, then straddles me and kisses me. She wants “more and more.” I cover her mouth with my hand. “Please, don’t say anything!”

I head to the kitchen to get my cigarettes. I light one and settle by the window, while she presses against my back. I turn, give her a small kiss on the lips, then ask her to go home and leave me alone.

Above all, I just wanted a quiet evening listening to vinyl records.