Untitled (to M. B.)


He couldn’t forget that black eyes’ look. It was an intriguing, almost offensive look. He grew uncomfortable to the point of disliking her. But he was thrilled as well, and couldn’t avoid looking back. He looked back many times, although he knew that he shouldn’t. That woman was putting a hex on him, attracting his sight.
He couldn’t stand her though, feeling something he couldn’t explain— a sort of sick sweetness. Talking to her, he felt he hated her, as if she was an insect. The thought of making her suffer gave him the most exquisite pleasure.
He was always uncommitted, he never stayed. However, when she turned to the other side, he saw the flesh of her neck, he wanted to stick his teeth into it.
How old was she anyways? He looked at her swimming style. There was something peculiar about it, like salty water. He felt as if softened and completely sad.
Ann was not like that woman.
At night, he felt lazy. An enourmous pillar inclining and coming down, smashing everything bellow. The thoughts would remain anyways on his mind, his brain, his body. Not only at night. He dreamt about a bull and infinite ants. A metallic fish jumping out of a crack. Wet lips.
He got seek for a week. A fever made him to sweat, and blinded him with a brightness of hot, unknown regions.
What was it that he felt? Everything to go away in eternal repetition, one day after the other, always the same.