BLUE DREAM GIRL WITH GREEN EYES IN GREY WITH FINAL SAD STORY OF SEA
few years ago, on a trip to Prague, I sat in the cafe terrace Bily Jelínek . While reading random excerpts from the book of disquiet, I culled the reading a woman's voice spoke to me in perfect Castilian, but with a Czech accent barely identifiable. When I looked up I saw before me an attractive woman who smiled at me and, pointing to the book of Pessoa, apologized for the intrusion. Soon we were sharing another coffee and talking a bit haphazard in our histories and backgrounds.
Bazenová was called Viktoria, Novotná shower. He spoke perfect Castilian because as his father a diplomat, his family had lived in Madrid until she was fifteen. She said she was a writer and his growing dream was to write a novel in Castilian. We spent three hours talking and there arose a friendship that has lasted all this time. When was evening walk took me to my hotel and along the way told me a story that just happened. Do not go into details, it was a love story that had been missed, explaining he was not sure if by fear, fatigue, or their situation as a married woman. I think I had moved this to me, almost a stranger, because it was a form of that history, so often thought to herself, charged another accent, as if somehow be satisfied that she did not live.
We remained friends and never have talked about that story, but two weeks ago she emailed me the first version that had the story. In the mail I intended to write for four hands its history. This text transcribed below is the result.
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BLUE DREAM GIRL WITH GREEN EYES IN GREY WITH FINAL SAD STORY OF SEA
Coffee is called Again. It was eleven o'clock. They sat on the terrace two tables away. She wore her jacket and dark glasses rock, he his casual shirt and book black rubber caps. Their eyes met for six seconds, then sought to sneak over half an hour. Both knew immediately that his story could not be.
The next day the man asked permission to sit at your table. She smiled and raised their glasses to their eyes also tricolor smile. Things happened fast. Almost without thinking. She, a sculptor, a short latte coffee. He, a writer, one decaf with saccharin. A word, a question, more smiles, then more words every day, scrawled with fine print and trembling on small pieces without grid, carefully pulled his notebook. Each leaf was a poem, every morning a piece on, attached to the dish of coffee at the round table under the trees and the look of old waiter blatantly trying to rip the veil of a dream that he could no longer dream.
Every day the man came at eleven o'clock with her to leave her all night, the heavy ink sad hours making up a small shelter in the ceilings and all hell past. Every night as she tried to take him to his dreams, he spent those nights dreaming of writing the perfect story to take the girl to live within it. She clung dark glasses to hide their morning and he spoke slowly or fast as he was the heart is defined, in putting the dimensions and measures that would address, to make it possible to make it true and do not scroll and does not wait.
He intended not to tell her every morning dawns for a moment not spent in the life she wanted with her and yet could not help it, and hurried him recite every inch of their most intimate desires, interlacing with everyday phrases that could be repeated to anyone, take a decaffeinated, to take perhaps the importance of the intense time I was living. As if to mix and love and the rest will prevent their escape, so she did not panic when you realize enter hopelessly trapped emotions so intense that carried very far away, safe from everything and in the middle of nowhere.
Sometimes I tried, with much effort and little success, to pass the time in silence, cautious, so she would not notice that all he wanted was to spend the whole day and life talking in his ear, whispering I love the flocked to him one after another, held by fear, and whose light output so eagerly awaited that sometimes could hardly breathe. To let them run over your body, mind and soul, without pity, without limits, without barriers and no whys. Kisses to flood deferred without an expiration date.
She then lived every word with her eyes and once again laughed and sighed to look at the ground looking for the meaning of something, the point I stopped the treadmill and the thrill of it all behind to come around without anything, without it was worth nothing more than the figure of man backlight without going away in his sleep, without going into her bed. When was the time with coffee and talk, warm, caress of his eyes, the man curled up in her hand the folded piece of sheet so that she dreamed. And as he passed that April of soft lights and bright eyes, she is too small for him to infinity and he wanted more and more. The sheet melted in letters falling like tears on her face to become mist between her legs and she pressed her strong in the bowl of your hand to feel the desire and a touch too low whispering a new story that penetrates to the strength of each word, each image of the man arriving every day at eleven, from scratch.
Every night she unfolded the sheet and read it very slowly, drifting with every letter, every word, to get to sleep, guided by the path of a slow tears that arose around the time lost, so long without dreams, without wanting to, without looking. Then came the dream that she wanted to live. Everything was there: the trees, the waiter, morning, sun, desire, but the man of every day at eleven did not come. Spent sleeping and the man had not arrived. The tremor, anxiety, insomnia, turned up in the morning and the light was shining milk your eyes open, afraid to quit, never to return to find their empty dreams. On each sheet had written a dream, but the man who wrote them was never there.
that day, when he left to meet the man, took his camera and when he came softly kissed him on the cheek and said: "I want to make some pictures" and took off his glasses and the man saw his reflection in the sea soul in those eyes, unable to imagine that there was going to lose. Everything went well, but that day she, in addition to his story, took the material with which to build his dream. With the help of photos paraffin modeled a perfect replica of the man, joined with the paraffin a clay mold and introduced the golem in the oven. When the wax melted, molten bronze poured into the soul of man from clay and rested for the time necessary to solidify the collation.
bronze stripped of their skin with mud and was looking at that mirror as I looked the man to the daydreams sculpture made man and life and love and smile and hug her and gently took away the shadow of fear with a gentle kiss on the lips and fingers are careful, the man, unbuttoning her blouse, caressing her neck, her ear, her neck, her hair, her neck again up to her chest and her soft pink nipples, waking up a brush that was spreading across her mind until you feel your skin burning His mouth saliva bitter taste of it gave him more thirsty, and their tongues embraced their bodies and walked naked and drawing the accurate map of their sex with hands and fingers, tongues and mouths biting places of their lives where the identity does not need names. And as he passed orgasm remained bronze bronze and although she searched his body could not find the human footprint, only their tears and stroking his own hand.
And when they got into bed could mourn a little bit comfortable, quiet, unleashing all the pent-up emotions after receiving so much love. And cried thinking that maybe it was the last time you meet again. They had lived the story together, knowing from the beginning how it would end. And now it hurt the soul, so much wanting and knowing so dear, nothing more. There would be no words, no more, no more kisses and caresses more smiles. They could not afford it, and know ahead of time, each moment was more intense than any uncertain history that seems destined to weave forever. Bet a thousand times that there would never be a story so real, even though almost unreal, half dream, half lived. In every tear you shed now was a part of that story, and now rolling down his cheeks as saying goodbye to her, him and his life. He recalled those early moments that without purpose and almost without realizing it, began to coincide in many places, in several songs, in several words, in some streets and in many dreams. And how the certainty of knowing including gradually came closer and as fast yet, that in a blink of nights the days were common and well wishes. Recalled, smiling as she wept, shared the excitement of knowing alone in a crowd. And how there were days when the sun did not leave much to be pawned one or the other when we had to turn on the light. And then would not think of anything else, rebelled against the logic that what was promised one end and against which it could not or did not know how to fight. Visit the site each day dreamed, but viewed from a distance, lest they hurt more. And I knew it would day and mid-life months and maybe even a night to go to sleep without mourn.
That night she finally dreamed. He went to sleep with their fantasies of always fearing that once again got what I desired, bring to share their sea. She snuggled in the sheets feeling more helpless than ever for all that was not going to happen and always shedding tears, began to dream. And we saw appear in the distance, walking along the shore of that beach, blurred still trembling and fiery eyes that every day he showed on arrival. He held out his hand so he could not escape and whispered "Stay with me, I'll show you my sea." He took her hand, put his lips to her mouth, touching her, putting the first kiss on her cheek to come slowly to his lips and slide them with his tongue, slowly, as if squeezing and pressing them time on it. Thumbs stroked the forehead of the woman and was down with both hands on their cheeks, increasing the pressure every inch, shaping the face for which he had written each of its letters. Continue your caress until the lips he was kissing and gently introduced into the mouth of the girl, along with their own language, while the remaining fingers held her neck. Penetrated that mouth with his tongue and fingers, eagerly, with a thirst for all that sea was called, with greed to swallow those tears choking blue and desire to be discharged into striker made his tongue and penis reaching deep into that mouth open and surrendered to him. The hands continued down the neck and then tore the blouse of the woman with a crack of wave that is confused with the first cry of her, burning from the temples to the feet, dripping fluid from the crotch, wet from the first thought that was watching him one day reach the cafe.
He said: "Thanks for so many words, thank you so much love."
And the man replied: "I wanted to take my story, and you've brought your dream. We are as far, just alone. "
And the girl got rid of his tongue and his tongue took that skin that she had modeled his fingers. Walnut kissed her and opened his shirt to bite her nipples and her breast, her navel. His fingers loosened his belt, unbuttoned his trousers the man to drop dead in the sand. A woman pull down his pants and grabbed him with both hands the testicles and penis, she pressed hard as if you love mud while his fingers stroked his English, his scrotum, buttocks. Her lips re-join, and separate tongues sucking again while the girl's mouth down to her waist, left thigh, up to the groin and was lost there, wet with saliva every fold of the man who was unable feel without being statue, without being more than a written replica of something that could not exist. The woman placed his penis in her mouth and closed his eyes, his tongue bathed him circumcised and salt, it rocked and pumped as if to make every second of desire that was stored there. He lay on the sand and women hold the member of his mouth, ahorcajó about it. His buttocks danced language inches del hombre y goteaban sobre aquella boca entreabierta olor de mar y sudor de sexo. El hombre agarró el tanga de la mujer por ambos extremos de su tira central y lo estiró hasta introducirlo entre sus labios vaginales, acercó su lengua y lamió el interior de sus muslos, sus ingles, sus glúteos, su ano, su vagina. Sus dedos recorrieron luego cada uno de estos sitios, horadando a aquella mujer en cada uno de sus recuerdos.
Ella le dijo: “Gracias por estas caricias, gracias por este amor.”
Y el hombre le contestó: “Yo quería darte cada uno de mis días, y tú me has convertido en estatua. Estás igual de sola, estás igual de far. "
She got on all fours and he lowered the thong to her ankles, stood up on his thighs open and sheltered the penis between the two buttocks kept him there while the sea was crying on the beach and Clouds hid the whole dream and the blue sky disguised desire. Put your penis in wet vagina. He spent some time still, on that rump with her hands hugging the hips. He remembered each of the words he had written for her, to live by it, and was forgetting one after another, to die for it. Began to move his pelvis, at first slowly, then rhythmically, progressively, while that ass so much desired were opened to its beat. His thrusts became more irregular and stronger. When he crashed his pelvis on the buttocks of a burst deaf she forgot what they had been, what they wanted. There was only noise, the sea, the beach, playing only the buttocks and penis feeling come and moans orgasm stroking her clitoris with despair, and everything that could not be watching and laughing a bit too.
The girl shouted: "Wait, do not run."
He shouted: "Wait, do not go."
She
got that penis between her buttocks and put it in his mouth and pulled hard to not spill on the sand or a drop of sperm that, to swallow whole and to remember the taste when she woke up from sleep.
And he stared at those eyes, sea and sky and cloud one last time and finished undressing. He walked to the shore when the water reached his neck walked to the end. She looked diluted in the green and knew she would always remember. He put two fingers into her vagina and was wet to his lips, sucking licked every last particle of sex odor of the man who only love in your dreams. He dressed slowly and wrapped his look with the gray cloudy sky. He stood a long moment looking at that sea. Backlight back and seemed to be waiting for someone, but when he turned his blue eyes were the same sleep. Story girl smiled and put his dark glasses, then walked along the bank. When he woke up not able to remember whether she had dreamed, but the man never saw him again.
