I saw him the last time when the wind was blowing the dry leaves of autumn. Paris looked perfect that night. The moon was so clear we didn't need the lights to show our way to Montmatre. A paintor stared at his face astonished by the perfection of his features, the deepness of his fine blue eyes, the well built nose and tiny lips. The paintor wished he could have kissed him, as Michelangel when he finished the sculpture of his David. For the paintor was a homosexual who, of course, admired that well-looking boy whom I hardly knew except for those moments when he lied upon me pushing my arms upwards as if he wished to show me the power of his manhood as he entered on me with slowly, softly movements like trying to perpetuate that moment forever. But for him nothing was forever. He did not admit the fact that someone could posess him with the force of those chains who carried the black men from Africa spreading them as slaves throughout the world. When the world was a colony possesed by the disire of wealth an dominance. Power the key of success, fame and religion, seeking treasures hiden in the mines, in the sacred places in the name of a punishing God for whom I feared far more than his contrary, the devil.
Our goodbye kiss was not a promise, neither a rejection. He was surprised as he got a painting of himself from the paintor. It was a cartoon, almost a joke, as if fate and circumstances could bring us back together somehow in the wheels of time. I never asked him his name. We faded in the night like a shadow one could touch with one finger.
All rights belong to its author. It was published on e-Stories.org by demand of Lupita Mueller.
Published on e-Stories.org on 01.09.2011.