Wednesday, February 22, 2017

Mon Vilain

The heat was unbearable, through the half open window I could hear them.

Here is the playground for the privileged students and ambitious ones, another golden star to have, another trophy to collect.

So, what am I doing here, well you could call it an abnormality. Because I am an underachiever, an outcast and always late.

20 minutes here, 20 minutes there, it ads up to weeks, to months, I am years behind. Time is tragic.

I keep drinking with jazz in the background, here in this small room I am typing my Life away.

Then I hear it, I have been longing for it, this is one of the reasons why I miss Paris so much.

I pour myself a big one, roll a double, grab my phone and rush to the pool area. Which is deserted by now because of the rain.

There is a beautiful swimming pool here, surrounded by orange trees and begonias, on top of the hill.

I find a nice spot under the orange trees at the end of the pool, it’s quiet and peaceful.

I am watching raindrops pitting the mirror surface of the swimming pool. Listening to music and drinking, thinking, some people live like this.

Suddenly the wonderful scent of coconut vanilla filling the air, I close my eyes and breath in, let it fill my lungs.

When I open my eyes, she is standing in front of me. Green eyes, light brown hair, olive coloured skin and what a lovely face.

She wears a pale, lime summer dress, perfectly fit to her body, holding a wine glass and smiling.

“So, you hiding here, why you run away that night? It’s rude you know?” she said with a cute French accent.

I try to say something smart but all I produce is. “Well yeah, I mean no.”

“Wow, that explains everything” she said.

“You are a writer? Right?”.

“Me? No, I just write, not even good at it”.

“You are strange, you know”.

Embraced, I think she feels me so she asks. “it’s just like Paris now, yes?”

I have so much to say but then survival instinct taking over, I know I have to create distance, don’t let anybody reach my core, I am almost leaving when she said.

“What is the song you were listening?”

I truly love two things: writing and music, and unfortunately these two makes me lose my head.

“Mambo king’s movie soundtrack”

“The movie with Antonio Banderas?” she said.

“You heard that soundtrack?” I ask surprisingly.

“Oh, my God, I love it!”.

“Beautiful Maria” is one of my favourite songs”.

Then she put her wine glass down, sits next to my pool chair, leans towards me, her lips inches away.

“La bella Maria de mi amor” she said softly. Looking at me in a different way now.

So, we talk, she knows a lot about music, arts and literature. She is sentimental and like most of them she is sad and profound. And she will be betrayed in many ways, many times.

And we talk some more, I don’t know for how long, but suddenly it’s dark and I remember that I have to go, create distance.

“Oh really? Runaway again? Strange and coward, that’s what you are! Runaway coward!” I hear her shouting while I am leaving.

Her words echoing in my mind, cutting through me like a sharp knife, deeply.

I get back to my room somehow, shamed, devastated and very tired. I lay down in my bed and before I know it I fall in sleep.

I don’t know for how long I was sleeping when somebody knocking at my door, unsteady I open the door.

She is standing there, tilting her head and looking wonderful.

“I just want to see if you are alright and kind of apologise”.

I don’t know what to say, I guess I am very surprised.

“You want to let me in?” she asks and smiling. 

I can’t believe it, she is in my room. Young and beautiful, life hadn’t get to her yet, uncorrupted. She talks and acts freely, true to her feelings.

I ask if she would like a drink. She nods, she also wants to listen to the movie soundtrack. I am standing beside the table, looking for the song at my laptop.

Then she comes behind me, I can feel her small and firm breasts, nipples hard, slightly brushing my skin.

I move to the wall shelves with bottles, saying that the soda is finished, going out of the room. Passing by the reception, to the wending machines, where I met her for the first time, that night.

When I come back she is sitting on my bed, reading a book, I pour two drinks, hers mostly soda, mine mostly whisky.

She says it’s very hot in here, waving her skirt up and down, I can see her tan thighs and some of her pubic hair. A few hairs curled around the edges of her white lace panties, I try to look away.

She wants me to sit beside her, our shoulders in touch, talking, drinking, listening to music, forgot about the world outside.

I don’t know exactly who made the first move, but I know I was eager, I was hungry for her.

I was tasting those moist, soft lips for the first time, kissing her small firm breasts and ran my hands down her naked, smooth thighs.

She was struggling beneath me, while my hands on her soft throat. Her eyes slowly closed, time to time.

A few moments later, she is moaning, her body shivers and she is burring her nails into my back and screams.

I weak up all sweaty, my heart is pounding, all alone in dark room, the heat is unbearable.

I take a walk to the beach, staring at the moon, thinking. Hemingway tasted his shotgun, Sylvia with her head in the oven and Chatterton drinking rat poison.

Yes, I know, I am a coward, hanging to this, so called life.

The remaining time, which is couple of days before she is going back, I stay in my room, hiding myself as usual.

And the day she leaves I am drunk, sad and drunk, listening to music and seek comfort by rereading my favourites. I turn a page on Hemingway, when I noticed a post it, I see a drawing of a little heart and two words: Mon Vilain.

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