That night we made love it was windy, and tonight while I am writing I can see that is windy as well.
The atmosphere was the same one that we can find in Conan Doyle’s novels, with bare trees stretching out their dark shapes on the tarmac still sprayed with water drops, and the soundtrack of dogs’ muffled barking.
The intercourse was weird, as much strict as natural; a natural evolution of events as it was all prepared for us and yet a little annoyed by the wait as it couldn’t wait anymore.
The car was uncomfortable and we couldn’t move or turn around as we wanted therefore, every complication made us more annoyed and frantic.
On your face, an indecipherable expression was constantly changing under the beams of yellow light filtering through the windows: I couldn’t say whether you liked it or not.
The silence that I could hear while we were smoking still screeches in my ears whenever I think about it. It’s not a memory that I recall with great pleasure: everything was too rushed.
You should have just taken me back home as usual, you should have turned the other way as I kissed you on the cheek before getting out of the car and shutting the door behind me, letting the metallic sound echo inside ourselves go away.
Instead, that night I decided to kiss you on the lips. No, it wasn’t a goofy tangling, but it was an accurate and decisive move. I had been thinking about it all evening and of course, those couple of beers that we had did not help, and it’s true, I could have just avoided it, as well as to think about how sick it was that the more you pushed me away, the more I wanted you.
And the cigarette was so bitter between my dry lips.
I wasn’t even trying to find something to say. Every fantasy or idealisation died there, on the front seat of an old hatchback with muddy mats and rain-striped windscreens.