Butterfly Effect

I know fuck all. Or considerably less. Nonchalantly ignoring the subject for two years until the last imaginable moment. I don’t think I slept the previous night — trying to invent ingenuine solutions to cheat the system.

Two years of my life are at stake, so is my reputation and bright future. Would I fail, I’d go work in construction, I say to myself, hoping I’d never happen.

I passed. Barely. Yet passed.

I could have slipped, and everything might have been different.

Kissing that tender skin of hers, touching that slender body, youthful oblivious joy soaking my mind, I conquered the educational system on my terms and this is my reward, starry night above the city, and just her naked self and me, I’m in love, always and forever. Till the day I’m gone.

She’s fast asleep next to me. I wonder how or even if she remembers that.

Infinite

It’s a date and it isn’t. The ambivalent duality of our relationship where denial is an integral part of reality.

One day, we could argue if anything ceased to exit or had ever existed in the first place. And the sun would keep spinning like my head that evening.

It’s early autumn, after dark, we’re above the city in a fortress, sitting around a campfire and listening to story-tellers. It’s cosy and intimate but it’s getting colder and I notice she’s slightly shivering, so I pass her my jacket.

And I just enjoy being with her, looking at her and keeping her company.

I feel complete. I don’t ask or even dream of more.

It’s all just a background of me realising how beautiful she is, inside and out, there is this mind-blowing forlorn saudade filling me up, mixed by the joy of having such fleeting moments with her by my side.

I do feel happy now.

She will never be mine and I will never be hers, we know and accept the rules, yet it does not matter. Not tonight.

And maybe it’s gonna get better before it’s gonna get worse and fade away.

But it does not matter now, there’s only present and that magical feeling that we are infinite.

Off

Dining in an upmarket fusion restaurant in the heart of the Strip. Two ladies plus me, the evening unfolding smoothly. Corporate culture at its best, the convention wraps the next day.

— What’s your plan tomorrow?
— I’m off for a road trip in the morning.

As blunt as it gets. They seem slightly taken aback.

I gave it three full days. Meetings over breakfasts, lunches, dinners. Chitchat over coffee, at the booth or in a suite. Enough. I deserve a hard pivot away from my business self. Enough. Enough of enterprise enthusiasm.

Time to be on my own.

I’m leaving at dawn, hiking through the valley by noon.

Do I wish I were here with somebody? I do. But do I care much? Not really. I enjoy being alone and there’s plenty of beauty to keep dopamine flowing.

Hours later, I watch the sunset. Just once, no hard Le Petit Prince moments. No company and very little agenda. Perhaps a good time to reflect?

I wonder when I’d be strong enough to cut ties with the rollercoaster of corporate life, the life I mostly love and occasionally hate, the one that keeps consuming time I’ll never get back.

For once, I’m fucking present, no distraction, no reception, no earbuds, no noise.

How much freedom can one bear? Albeit temporary. For now.

Speedball

They say a speedball is one of the most dangerous drug combinations known to man. Sure it is, I tried.

I was pretty much fucked the moment I saw her. Beautiful, shy and confusing, giving me all kinds of feelings at once, from heavenly highs to abyssmal lows. From extasy to utter desperation and back again — plus everything in between. And I never fully recovered from a decade-long cold turkey, only to have fallen for a faithful vice again. I’ve signed my soul to her.

I’m a junkie, never having enough. It’s been years, decades, eternity.

Ride the wave, they said. I’ve ve been tryin’, with long intervals reserved to simply staying afloat, or just casually drowning here and there.

I’m a hopeless junkie, I love my fix.

Always and forever, till the day I’m gone.

Abyss

We go on a road trip together, only to fall out within days, the fragile tie shattering into thousands of irreparable pieces.

Yet we’re still sharing a bed — night after night, motels and inns — until we reach the city. Breathing so close to each other, without a single hint that it means anything more. I manage to stay lucid. Lucid and calm.

Until that morning.

I turn my head toward her and she smiles like an angel.

— Wanna fuck me?

An everyday man’s dream come true. An easy answer.

Yet my romantic thoughts have just been murdered. We’re about to become fuck buddies. I need to adjust in an instant to this new normal as my heart is sinking.

— I do want to fuck you.

The next second, I’m ripping off her pyjamas, exposing that ivory flesh of hers, every inch of it ready to be taken. There isn’t a moment of hesitation before I enter, pushing hard with lust and greed.

I love it and I hate it. The closeness is gone, the bond seems never to have existed, morphing into a hollow affair with seemingly no connection.

Fuck me.

How easy. Just not for me.

Few days later, I wake up with a massive morning glory. She’s fast asleep, and I know better than to wake her. She only messages me once I’ve left for meetings. And I reply, letting her know how I feel:

— I wanted to make love to you in the morning.

Making love. It suggests romance, a link, or at least a hint of a liaison. I’m far from young, but I’ve had feelings for all those comets that passed by. I do care. And making love means far more to me than just fucking. This is how I operate.

We’re apart for most of the day. And then, just as I’m approaching the gate, a message arrives:

— Will you please fuck me when you come home?
— Certainly.

I do. And afterwards, I sink deeper into nothingness, a switched-off state with no release, no nauseating pain, just a pure abyss of nothingness. I wanted zen. Here it is.

Still, it lingers.

And we fuck again, maybe a couple of times more, whenever she feels like it. Until our ways part. In the middle of an airport, I’m turning left, she’s turning right, a fleeting kiss and it’s all gone.

We’ll always have Prague, Chicago, Vegas. And Paris.

But the romance, it is gone.