HIDDEN IN PLAIN SIGHT TOUCH

I go down clutching my legs to reach out and tide up my shoe laze. What can I say, it has been a good night. I met the people I was supposed to meet, saw friends, and yes, you’ve touched my hand. Hidden in plain sight, our fingers have teased playfully behind the stem of the glass where my drink was held as witness. It was a public event, still, you have decided there and then, to show me your intentions with a display of public affection. As I reached to grab my glass, you have mirrored my hand and your fingertips have played with mine. As a default in the trade, the bartender had to pretend he was not there. I shrunk and blushed at the unexpected act. I froze as I felt the shivers down my spine. I want to be my best self and respond with equal dare, but, this is not one of those occasions in which I rise gracefully, leveling with the circumstances. I’m in the loosing side, I am clueless, I cannot read the signs. As I calibrate with reality, something just doesn’t feel right. But, for now, I take this as a little victory within my, still, relatively inexperienced spectrum of conquests. There is so much to learn, and as an eager student, practice is the only way to advance. I fix my dress’ wrinkles as I stand up, shoes now ready for walking, I resume my pace as I look down at my hand that, still, every now and then, tingles to the memory of the, now part of the past, thrillingly revealing moment at last.

Hidden in plain sight touch. Short-story from 12 o’clock-tales and after hours thoughts. The book.

AMY, AMY, AMY


I often find myself talking to Amy, I listen to her and my answer is underlined in the way I embrace her voice through my presence, the physical and the other, and I think on the time we met, or our lives crossed paths, more like. You excused yourself politely while approaching the bar with your tiny delicate body close to mine. You asked for salt, for your toothache, you said, and I wondered if that was indeed an old-fashioned trick, something you might have learned back home, before you belonged to all of us and the world. While you made your way through, I remained seated on that tall stoel with a very tiny dress I would only wear that day, for I have never again been that skinny as I was back then. In the time when scrutiating pain filled up my whole self, pushing out any coherent sense. It was indeed a high pitched tragedy. To feel my empty breasts, like empty bags, hanging by my chest, like barometers of my confussion and lonelyness. I heard we were following each others steps, swinging from bar to bar with our tiny bodies in our tiny apparels. I, annonimously and you, under the brightness of the spotlight and the gossip. I stared, without the etiquette and manners I so often lack, at you, wondering if it was worthy to go that far, to get lost in the dark where one finds the inspiration for the heart-moving art, despite our benefit and joy, while you struggled and despared. In my ideal world we all seat in a bar with a Martini on one side and a coffee table book on the lap, and you and I, smile every time we cross paths. Oh, Amy, Amy, Amy.

Amy, Amy, Amy. Short-story from 12 o’clock-tales and after hours thoughts. The book.

LIPSTICK RED


The red on my lips helps me stay grounded, less ethereal. It keeps my mind sharp and aware of the bondage to my body. I study the mark it leaves on my glass as irrefutable proof of interaction. I will aim to drink from that same spot every time I quench my thirst, my body’s and my own. Thirst for the flavour, for the experience of this artistic expression on liquid form. Thirst for the taste and appreciation of a skilful creation in the search of perfection on a balanced, complex enough, exciting libation. With my red landmark I reiteratively stamp my approval as I curate the delicacy in my glass. With this kiss I relate to celebrations that have taken place in the past. With this motion I am in the room with Joséphine, Anne, Tamara, Hedy, Marilyn, Diana, Amy, and my neighbour next door, for we are all queens of our own kin, and the Physics that procure analysis on the behaviour of time still run jealously behind on this attempt to comprehen the bond within the female kind.

Red Lipstick. Short-story from 12 o’clock-tales and after hours thoughts. The book

DON’T FALL IN LOVE WITH P. N.

Don’t fall in love with Paolo Nutini and the like. Though I have never met this particular man, I can already tell it is highly un-recommendable. To fall for confessions, served with luke warm words, about past adventures hurting his heart, where you will like to reside. You are different you will not leave him astray, damaged on the side of the way. By a carnivore plant designed to attract, trap and catch, I’m being devour alive. When it hurts, celebrate, I say. Uncork the bubbles, put on that dress Lana wears so well, and dance. Drink and dance. Plant-based has good fastfood options as well. I got a playlist, liked songs from the net, randomly switching as I shake it off. The Cremant in the fridge was waiting for me. Aren’t Wednesdays the best of days to let down your hair and listen to how others suffered as well, fell in love, broke up, got together again. I’m not old but I’m too old for this. You don’t know anything about me and your sole feverish attraction is purely based on the idea itself, isolated and disengaged of personification, and it’s our creative nature to blame. In my head I’m very smart, I talk algebra, chemistry, there’s a philosopher, Gilbert, living inside, and, easy or not, one has to let go to get by. Conversations in my mind are my real joy, the treats to my days, I understand the world, us, the universe and life itself. The quality of my sight is defined by the amount of light out there. Through my chest I answer to myself, in morse coded verses, an invisible hand is squeezing the blood pumping organ that takes care of my health. Short and long clutches assembled in threes, as it was done by the marines. I play no instrument of the musical kind but the keyboard in my hand connected to my calling device writes the stories I will tell and share with the hope that, when read, others got to sing and dance as well. When it hurts, sing and dance, be bulletproof, I say.

Don’t fall in love with Paolo Nutini. Short-story from 12 o’clock-tales and after hours thoughts. The book.

ONE FOR THE ROAD

The clicking of her heels on the asphalt was the only sound surrounding her thoughts, as she walked down the street, at an hour when she always felt on top of the world. It was over, the feeling was gone, it was not that long ago they had met and the feeling was already gone. Her firm steps were guiding her heart to a stronger and reassuring beat, as they echoed up the narrow street, though cruelly pebbled, still appreciated by the romanticism attached to the architectonics of the age now passed. She was free and freedom tasted to reality. Shoes in hand, her feet felt cold. A snow flake landing on her nose took her back from melancholia, yet, another story that soon will belong to the past, with no special importance attached, living in her heart. The door from the bar, she had left behind, opened, letting out some recent former partners on the art of casual encountering, and, with them, muffed rhythms of the night, which, down there, often got a little stretched into brighter hours of the day. She grasped the leftover sounds and danced back and forth with time, for, though the feeling was gone, she was not quite yet ready to move on, and, she might as well, just for a short while, stay within the year of the cat with the Lucies in the sky.

One for the road. Short-story from 12 o’clock-tales and after hours thoughts. The book

MY PRETTY LEFT FOOT

I look down at my left foot, my favourite part of my body. It looks very pretty in my pink and red high-heeled shoes. I only choose to wear them today to honour and match the decoration of this new venue I’m being shown to. It’s hidden, the kind one rings on a very discreet bell on a wall of a building that seems to host something else. The tones are white and blue, quite unusual for the business of this kind. The temperature feels just right and the perfectly studied intensity of light serves the atmosphere aldente to the eye. Glass in hand, old-fashioned, I’m back to my roots and back to my reflections as I check up with my heart. Beginings are nice, and exciting, though I had few beginnings lately that were quite mellow and flatsided. I told myself, it made sense, I am getting older, my beloved hormones are probably down on my feet now, playing with peebles on the beach talking to each other ‘ain’t it nice to be retired!’ But then there was ‘this’, and there is you and your ‘hell, yeah’ sexy voice, smart approach, and I am back to feeling excited. Beginnings are nice, the romantic and the business like, a new project, a collaboration by the horizon has also brought sparks to the eye, and the mind. Old habits die hard. I’m back to raising the glass to ideas in exchange, all parties involved hoping to be part of something great. I look back down at my left foot in my red and pink high-heeled shoe and I wish for this beginnings to stick and move onto the next phase where I can celebrate the comfort and warmth of the things that are steadily nice in my life.

My pretty left foot. Short-story from ‘12 o’clock-tales’ (The red table and a scared black cat book adventure)