segunda-feira, 11 de abril de 2016

Short Story : Felix

                                                   Felix , by Leonardo Lopes da Silva

  Now, as he heard her gentle purr, feeling her nose burrow itself firmly on his temple, in order to feel the scent of his hair identity, all the pieces came together, it all made sense to him; everything was in its right place in his world.

  He had assumed it would be easy to deal with her, this nightly creature, who had followed him silently to his flat, without any apparent demands or supplication. It would just be one more roof over her head; just one more warm and dry spot to keep herself warm, that was really all she ever needed. Or so he thought. She drank all of the water he had offered her in one go, but ate too little of the tinned tuna that he, way too busy with himself to think of mundanities like going shopping for food, or wearing matching socks, found neglected in a corner of a shelf in his empty fridge. I've never thought it would be so simple, he thought out loud, to take in one more presence in such tight quarters, this cramped apartment of mine. She rubbed against him as she walked in and down the hall, but that was comprehensible, as it was so damn narrow.

  Looks like I won't hit the jackpot tonight, he muttered, as he saw her pounce onto the sofa and stretch her whole body like the most accomplished Pilates instructor, before she shut her huge Caribbean Sea-green eyes.  One day they would get swept up in a staring contest, and he would want to figure out whether those sea sized globes were as warm as they seemed; he would try to find his footing in them. I can't afford to drown anymore, he kept saying to himself, a mantra of jaded resignation, I don't want to drown anywhere.

  The impending dawn startled him out of his reveries, it was time to get himself to bed. There's nothing better than a solar rule, a decree of light, which would ensure that he could find himself a haven from utter desiccation, curled up in bed, underneath his rough blanket, protected by the shadows, once everyone and everything became revealed and exposed by the unforgiving and relentless daylight, set in motion, with a purpose. A timetable. Engagements.

  However, nothing about that pre-planned, predefined way of getting away from the machinations of the solar day, would work that day.
  Because of her.

  No sooner had the clock struck midday than she made herself seen, looking daggers at him with enviable accuracy, demanding that he sped up his indolent and pachydermic get-up-and-fix-breakfast-or-lunch-or-dinner process; it did not actually matter which meal it was, as long as there was coffee included, and that was why his favourite meal in his homeland was simply and aptly called "coffee".
It was not just a faster pace in his day cancelling motions that she had in mind, though. She wanted his presence, his being there constantly and totally as she did her restless rounds to the window and away from it, as if he could actually vanish off the face of the Earth if she turned away from him, out of her sight. Her neediness seemed illogical and infuriating to him (perhaps she was a control freak?), unquestionable to her. HER. Someone who was capable of spending an entire hour looking out of the window, ignoring him thoroughly. Yet, it only took a most deafening head jerk (for then her eyes unleashed a tsunami of Amazonian fury, as well as the wailing cries of sailors about to encounter their final destination, over him and his daydreams) she told him, nay, she commanded him to stand next to her at the window sill, to behold the military regularity, the march of the sons of the Sun, and their parade of orderly, accurate, punctual inventions; she did not hesitate to make him witness her hygienic and sanitary rituals, much as he did not wish to get to know all their specifics; she could not stand his keeping any door closed, any refuge for his nudity. In fact, being naked was not a matter of privacy to her, it was something which was perfectly natural to her.  This absence of shame in her, somewhat unchristian, pre-pagan - for there was nothing beyond her body and the world, her extension, to her mind - ignorant of any Puritanism, dictated that she needed to see him naked as she has always been in her cat-like manner, just as she was now, crawling behind the sofa to look for something that she had mischievously lost on purpose.

  He did not understand those purposes of hers, he could not realise why she had to swipe a glass off the table, to see it invariably shatter into a thousand pieces all over the floor.

 Did she have to sit right in front of his tablet, just now that he would stream an interview with his beloved comedian?

  Why do you crave so much attention? RIGHT NOW?, he shouted. Last night you were not that eager to do anything at all!!! Last night I didn't seem to be THAT important, did I???
What to say of her naughtiness? The boxers and socks tossed out of the open wardrobe drawers slowly turned his crampartment floor into a park ground in high Autumn, a pile of unlikely cotton leaves that absorb transpiration very easily here, a procession of stripes and squares and tartan and dots there, as she lay cheekily amidst his clothes, as if she was someone who has finally found out where her picnic is going to be.
It was pointless to shout at her, or try to get her out of one more mess, in a place where chaos was supposed to be unimaginable, as it was too tiny for chaos to be possible. She would just stare at him numbly, with a late afternoon hungover sea look which seemed to say perfunctorily, You are making something which is already boring even more mind numbing.
 That was why her immediate reaction to her boredom was to tease and poke the domino effect that led to fights between the two of them. She bit and scratched with gusto when they came to blows, her eyes casting olive lightning and thunder at him as her first line of attack and defence. To him, there was no other choice but to smack her, being careful not to hurt his own principles and values too much, so he wouldn't be taken by the scarlet fever of a newfound hypocrisy. She kept on running haughtily, feeling offended and hopeful that she would find a place to hide away from his spitted curses and his volcanic exasperation. In vain.

 There were no apologies. Nor forgiveness.
 This tempestuous environment lingered and made the air inside the crampartment stuffy and stale, until at length the day collapsed unto himself in his morose and brooding gait, and waved funereally at the incoming night, who was all smiles, with her Byzantine train of starry mosaics in merry succession, beating the drums to the zodiac Carnaval party of the universe, making way for the Milky Way-faring Moon.

 He let it all wash over him, sitting on the edge of the bed, basking and bathing in the cosmic drizzle that broke into the room through the windows, and saluted, paid his respects to the glorious silence, the ecstatic stillness of the night in her infancy.

 She sat silently on his lap, charmed by the power of the revelation that inexorably took hold of her, the jade coloured, sea algae phosphorescent tides in her eyes swelling in total expansion, pouring out of herself, overflow.

 How supreme and sublime was his surprise when she leaned towards him, opening her lips!, uttering words for the very first time, words he thought he had never heard anyone say before with such serene, loving authority.

 Now you are mine. Now I am yours.

 I partake of you. You partake of me.
 She engulfed him in her arms, as she repeated her declaration of dependence in a hypnotic murmur on and on and on...

 Now, as he heard her gentle purr, feeling her nose burrow itself firmly on his temple, in order to feel the scent of his hair identity, all the pieces came together, it all made sense to him; everything was in its right place in his world.

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