Oooh~… what timing!
The red light stops us.
The city sighs, the crowd sighs, the bus brakes sigh and the traffic light, relentless, drops a luminous curtain right between you and me.
How beautiful, the world's unintentional staging!
No one knows they're acting—except me.
Hehe~
You stop just a step before the white line.
Your heel hangs suspended for an infinitesimal instant, then lowers, precise, and your weight anchors to the asphalt.
I stop behind you.
Not too close.
Not yet.
My shadow brushes against you like a promise I'm in no hurry to keep.
The shop lights, mixed with the red, tint your skin with an artificial crimson.
Oooh~, it suits you so well.
You look like a glazed pastry left too long in the display: tempting, fragile, ready to give way beneath the tip of a knife.
Your right shoulder rises, just barely.
Almost nothing.
And yet, to me, it's a scream.
You don't need words.
Your body speaks: "here it is, here he is, right behind me".
You like to pretend it isn't true.
But the neck doesn't lie, darling!
The skin knows before the mind.
You turn.
At last.
Your eyes lock onto mine.
Oooh~… there they are.
I remembered well.
There's fire, there's water, there's that razor-sharp contradiction: fear disguised as pride.
How I missed you, contradiction!
"Why are you following me?"
Your voice is low, tight, your throat closing after the question.
It isn't a scream.
Not yet.
It's a thread, inviting me to pull.
Mmh… what a delight!
I have at least ten answers poised on the tip of my tongue.
All true.
All lies.
I could say: I sensed you before I saw you.
I could say: I've lost the habit of pretending I don't desire you.
Or, more amusing: I'm not following you, I just happened to be going the same way.
Hehe~ how banal; it would almost be a shame to use it.
I don't reply.
I let you stew in my silence.
Silence is a flawless knife: it leaves no stains, yet it cuts deep.
I hear your breath trying to keep a steady rhythm.
I hear it break every two, three beats.
Music...
I look at the red.
I look at you.
I look at the window where a mannequin smiles with ruby lips.
It looks like you, when you tried to convince me that a kiss could be enough to stitch things back together.
Oooh~, did I make that up?
Or did it really happen?
What does it matter, if the memory amuses me?
Your left hand tightens around the strap.
Your knuckles stand out.
I watch the faintest tremor, that micro-shudder no one but me would notice.
That's where I live.
In the millimeter everyone else ignores.
"What do you want?"
Ah, you double down.
Good.
A better question, more honest than the first.
What do I want?
Mh… such a slippery word.
I could say: everything.
I could say: nothing.
I could say: the time between your breath and the next.
But the only answer worthy of me is another pause.
I run my tongue over my lip, slowly.
A minimal gesture, calculated.
I see your eyes slip for a second to my mouth, then snap back to what you think matters more—my eyes, where people always go searching for truth.
Oh, darling!
The truth in my eyes is a playground with no exits.
The rain picks up a little, almost a dusting of water.
Two drops land on your cheekbone, slide down.
For a moment I think about how your skin feels when it's wet.
It isn't a precise memory, it's an echo.
Or maybe it is.
In my head, everything vibrates the same way.
"Green is coming," says the glowing silhouette of the pedestrian on the other side.
Still red, though.
Still a sliver of waiting.
Oooh~, what a precious gift!
I move closer by half a centimeter.
Not a step: a centimeter.
Enough for my voice to reach you, if I choose.
Enough for you to sense the boundary I could cross.
"Do you really need an answer?" I whisper.
Thin, almost vapor.
You stiffen.
I hate you and love you for this: your involuntary honesty.
The body tells the truth, even when the mouth lies.
You swallow.
You don't step back.
Oooh~… well done.
The spine has memory: sometimes it holds.
Do you remember that night?
Maybe you do.
The rain was more serious then; it drummed on the roof like impatient fingers on wood.
I whispered something in your ear.
You laughed.
Or you cried.
Both sound right.
Between my teeth, there's no difference.
The light shifts.
Green.
The crowd swallows us, like the laughter of many.
So many people love to cross at the very first impulse, as if life began on the other side of the street.
I stay still a moment longer.
To let the wave pull you away from me.
To watch you take a step forward without me, and feel our rope grow taut.
Then I move my foot.
I reach you in the middle of the flow.
I don't touch anyone: I slip between bodies like an invisible mannequin.
I feel your scent brush against me—not the same as back then, but close enough to confuse memory and ignite it.
Mh… vanilla?
No.
Something cleaner, sharper.
It steals oxygen, imposes order, and precisely for that reason it makes me want to unleash chaos.
I tilt my head, close to your ear.
I don't touch it.
Rules are important… as long as I enjoy obeying them.
My voice slides into the current of noise around us: cars, heels, voices, the distant whistle of a street vendor.
"Maybe…"
I let the word fall like a sweet dropped into a glass of milk.
It sinks slowly.
"Maybe it's you who's coming back to me."