Monday, September 8, 2014

Tapas and tea candles.

One candlelit evening in the tail-end of the summer of 2014, I realised that the greatest joy in my life was to see him sit across the table from me and eat bread. He ate it with precision and great elegance, with his knife and fork, while I broke it with my hands before dipping it in olive oil, and laughed. There was so much simplicity in that act that it rendered all the ups and downs we had been through, all the screaming and clawing at each other, completely irrelevant. For now, there was a thunderstorm outside and we were inside a tapas bar, holding hands over the table, staring at each other in the candlelight, smiling, and eating bread. The silences were as natural as the conversation. I could pretend to be his wife, and there would be candlelight everywhere because I lit candles all the time. I could pretend that this was forever. And in that one perfect moment, it was forever.

The wine tasted of toxic feelings, and debris from the past. He drank it out of habit. I refused to poison myself. I picked out the octopus meat from the sea of patatas in the pulpo, and slid it on the side of his plate. There we were, incapable of distance, touching each other’s arm, or shoulder, or hair, or holding hands, because physical contact was the guarantor of reality. Our feet touched under the table, and it was consoling. It was consoling to want someone so much that I was ready to give up all of myself to him and for him. It was consoling to have found the source of my poetry and the subject of it, my key to a whole new world. It was consoling to feel so protective and so protected at the same time.

We sat, ticking Shakespeare away and not noticing him pass by.

And then we laughed. We laughed, because our babies would be so hairy.

2 comments:

  1. Finally a post after almost an year. For once we thought you had abandoned us but there you are now. Beautifully written as ever with all its flaws. Perfect.

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