Fiction

….Here is the story, and it starts at the end. It was the height of the spring; the green leaves were on the trees. Now it’s the deep of the springtime again {but the leaves from the last time fell off long ago}. And this is it, my last night, and tonight what I want more than anything in the world is to have a stone in my shoe. To be walking along the pavement, outside some coastal hotel and to feel a stone rattling about in my shoe as I walk, a small sharp stone, so that it jags into different parts of the sole, and hurts just enough to be pleasure, like scratching an itch.
And hotels are something when you like to ride, and travel all over the world. To explore unknown, and meet strangers. Have you ever looked at the computer in the hotel where are you staying? The computer can provide information on hotel guests, staff, international tariffs and more general material. And sometimes it is so interesting to find out about people that got stuck to your eye. Especially if they have made an erotic vocation on you, imagining the bedside in the complete strange room, just as the bathroom with the shower or a bath-tab. Giving you the complete mental picture in your mind of what might have happen between you and the person that you fantasies about. When its, of course, extremely important weather is a bath-tab or a shower. People say that hotel rooms are always the same. I don't think so, every hotel room is different, it smells different, it looks different, and it has different details. Looking at the eyes into the deep color of not knowing much. Taste the coffee on the breath, when breeze enters the room. The candle flame persists. As one speaks a narrow strand of saliva stretched momentarily between the lips, touching the mole on the cheek, running a finger along the lips. Touched eyelids the flutter of the eyelashes. The fingers moved up the forearm until coming to the crook of the eyeball. As moved the hand higher to feel the slight swell of the biceps. Their fingers met round the arm. Imagine an itch. Imagine a foot, and a pavement beneath it, and a stone, and pressing the stone with whole weight hard into the skin of the sole, or against the bones of the bigger toes, or the smaller toes, or the inside curve of the foot, or the heel, or the small ball of muscle that keeps a body upright and balanced and moving across the breathtaking still hard surface of the world. The final orgasm brings on the illusion of clarity. The unvarying buzz of an insect sustained in the inaction … And the very fact that the people afterwards are going away for good, back to their lives. And you just watch them passing by you, leaving the hotel, and sun with the pleasure memories on something wonderful. And the sun squeezed between clouds, flooding the hotel cafe terrace with the hot light. A bus shuddered to a halt and passengers spilling out. Spotting a gap in traffic, a little dog wagged across the road. And all individual sexuality is sublimated in the act of tunneling, with getting back to the usual crappy or happy life. Just by seeing arms and hair coming and going, illuminated and vanishing, crackling into view and disappearing, with the smoke that is pouring on to the dance floor, so thick to see. When the trance deepened. … there is no distance or direction, only the impenetrable light, the endless pump of the music. ….like an extreme form of tribal head dresses some trace of the spiritual world, of the animal soul picked up in the hotel room number 323. Because now that the breath, you might say, has been taken, missing such itching detail all the time.
Yes, there is something in the hotel, when you are staying for a Holiday, or for a day, in the sunny street of the romantic village in France, or on the Greek Island. I worry endlessly at details that would never have concerned me, not even for the moment of when I was still "alive". For example just for the peace of mind, my own personal fall and rise. I would like very much to know how long it took how long exactly, and I’d do it again in a minute given the chance to see and meet unknown. The gift of a chance, the chance of a living minute, sixty whole seconds. So many. I’d do it given only a fraction of that with my full weight behind me again if I could…