“I’ve realized that the things I once thought I wanted in life…. I don’t anymore….”
I look up at him from the grand piano. He looks up from his phone and back at me from across the wide silo bedroom and holds my gaze for a long moment.
He puts his phone on the Art Deco dresser and walks over to me slowly. The sunlight catches in the gold of his hair as he walks towards me. He wears a t-shirt with jeans that is a steel grayish blue, the color of his eyes in the light and the light seems to pass right through his irises with that vampire brilliance as though it lends a visual power. For a moment my thoughts are stunned to silence.
He stares into me as he nears me and with his eyes still biting into mine, he lays his fingers on the piano keys and plays three notes in succession as he strikes three keys. Pauses. Then four….
what is it….? ….I know this one….
but his eyes keep me from thinking of anything
“What do you want, my little dove?” he says this somberly as he nears me as he stares
“I ….don’t know….” I look away and cover my face and eyes with my hands and speak through the mask of my hands, “the world is such a different place ….now….”
I hear him move, hear the sound of the fabric of his jeans brush as he moves and then feel him sit next to me on the piano bench
With his attention focused on me now I struggle with my thoughts to focus them,
“I don’t like this world, Jörn….”and now I feel him press a kiss on the top of my head as he pulls me into his embrace
He whispers,
“min lilla duva …. världen var alltid ful. du väljer bara att inte se det….”
“What?” I ask him
But he pulls me across his lap and sets me to sit between his thighs and takes my fingers with his hands on both mine and lays them on the keys. But we don’t play. Instead, he bites my neck
“Tell me, min lilla duva…. what was it that you thought you once wanted?” but with each word he says, he goes from biting to kissing my neck and whispers into my ear, “tell me....”
“I wanted…. some idyllic ….foolish…. possibility…. that was once inspired ….by my historic ‘mentors’…. of the Arts…. but I should have realized ….that even ….Nike of Samothrace ….lost her head….” I turn to look up at him and stare into his eyes for something real to grasp, “but they are just memories left behind, aren’t they? Memories of their dreams that could not last….”
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