Gently I hugged the handle, without the fear that my digital signs will permeate the bronze sharpness, smoked colonial-style, offended by the fat of my task under 5 cars whose brands I don’t remember, which I hardly saw in horizontal inert. I turned left the 83 degrees required for the guttural crunch of the pin, which immediately drove a cool halo of the internal environment, a contrast to the deadly heat of the Rimac River valley, in which darkness wandered the new hotel, quick old-looking with the half-century unnecessarily intended in a style of the original construction.
27 degrees of openness were enough for the dim light to illuminate my eager cheeks to get more than the nose in that room that bubbled to sweat; as a mare developed in young oil African palm plantations. I opened it to 49 degrees, 52, 58.5 and almost spent, I got off the gray fisherman-style hat; I felt the internal ice in my sweaty brow, on my wet hair of literally 16 hours forza labor.
In the background I could see the jerky shine of your ripples, golden at moments, at moment’s brown, verging on red, to litmus. Hardly that, the rest was only a real mermaid silhouette under a white sheet which digital’s model turned your sculpture, swinging the 18 conditioning degrees from the sufficient 8 BTU. Gently, I sealed the door behind my back and dropped the Targus bag mercilessly to the ground, the external hard drive thundered; surely it was in the background, little or nothing I didn’t care. From then on I felt like your cold leveled my heat, it called me without saying anything, it pushed me telling me come at once! I could nearly feel your words in every pore of my skin. 5 meters, four, three, falling as my excess clothing.
Then my eyes became adjusted to the semidarkness of your stroke, I could see that bra in bright beige, enclosing two reasons enough for the soul, in soft 4H pencil sketch marked up with pen to the evil. With obvious enhancement, small bumps were protruding medium tropics cusps, aligned with the planets of that time, from the last half hour of waiting, from the 23 text messages log, inversely proportional to the distance. At5 a quarter of high, the sheet covered the rest, leaving to the imagination that turning bone that shapes your waist and your legs in a lock that ends of your feet in one.
I walked, I felt your breath near when you took my cheeks, scrapped my pointy beard, when you took my shirt and pulled to get so close that even I swear I saw a carbuncle in brightness. The taste of your candy mint stuck to my lips, and I felt in my soul the breath of your scent, mixed with the inexorable taste of your pupils who hid behind the curtains of your tender eyelashes.
I imagined within my echoes, the gradual decrease of your perfume, in your back, in your belly, in your life. I imagined the pounding of your blood, in your lips, in your eyes, in my temples. I felt like a real marrow pain as deep inside, like a feel to mourn, to laugh, to die. I imagined your breath, your face, your figure, from the door, if it could be opened…
I touched the doorknob again, touch the wood again; returned to my room, and put my feet on the ground for the third and final time.
I was aware of the unique and eternal truth. You did you not come.