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05/23/2019
Palonera
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Palonera
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32
not for the rest of your life
It was a wet and cold, gloomy November day when I met him for the first time.
I had sought shelter from the lashing rain, the cutting wind that swirled my hair around like autumn leaves and caught itself in the porch of the bus stop.
The bus was late, once again - I was cold and the shop behind me was a refuge in light and warm and fragrant.
There it was, the torso, at the top of the shelf.
A wet dream in satin glass with wasp waist, the bust in DD.
I wore jeans and a parka, just Cup B when I was 25.
Ten minutes later my bus came, I fell out of the store with the torso in my luggage, wrapped in soft and warm, late summer light on apricot skin.
From that moment on, I met him again and again.
He drove bus and train and sometimes even motorcycle, he went with everyone he wore through thick and thin.
He flooded the disco, the pub across the street, the supermarket and even the hospital.
He was omnipresent and at some point too much for me - I didn't want to taste the sweetness of a Hubba Bubba any more, and certainly didn't want to smell it (afterwards), so I filed for divorce and avoided him.
As good as I could.
Twenty-six years later, we met again.
I was still wearing jeans, still parka, at least when it was cold, now and then.
The torso wore an X instead of the corset, the bust didn't seem so big anymore.
"How have you been? Come on, tell me."
He had become calmer, lighter, finer.
A little greener to greet, the brightness dimmed.
Still the character of his youth, still sweet, still chewing gum - but more oranges than their blossoms today, a little acidity, a brizzle here and there.
Relaxed friendliness, charming eye winking, no more push up, no more piled up hair.
Recognizable "Classique", a little also "Ma Dame", not quite young anymore, but not too adult.
A late spring, an early summer morning, when the sun soon warms the garden.
Tight to my skin, he doesn't flood any rooms, not even the car, nobody escapes.
A fragrance for grey and sunny days, for naked arms and furry muff.
Not for the rest of my life - my life - but I certainly won't push him from the edge of my bed...
I had sought shelter from the lashing rain, the cutting wind that swirled my hair around like autumn leaves and caught itself in the porch of the bus stop.
The bus was late, once again - I was cold and the shop behind me was a refuge in light and warm and fragrant.
There it was, the torso, at the top of the shelf.
A wet dream in satin glass with wasp waist, the bust in DD.
I wore jeans and a parka, just Cup B when I was 25.
Ten minutes later my bus came, I fell out of the store with the torso in my luggage, wrapped in soft and warm, late summer light on apricot skin.
From that moment on, I met him again and again.
He drove bus and train and sometimes even motorcycle, he went with everyone he wore through thick and thin.
He flooded the disco, the pub across the street, the supermarket and even the hospital.
He was omnipresent and at some point too much for me - I didn't want to taste the sweetness of a Hubba Bubba any more, and certainly didn't want to smell it (afterwards), so I filed for divorce and avoided him.
As good as I could.
Twenty-six years later, we met again.
I was still wearing jeans, still parka, at least when it was cold, now and then.
The torso wore an X instead of the corset, the bust didn't seem so big anymore.
"How have you been? Come on, tell me."
He had become calmer, lighter, finer.
A little greener to greet, the brightness dimmed.
Still the character of his youth, still sweet, still chewing gum - but more oranges than their blossoms today, a little acidity, a brizzle here and there.
Relaxed friendliness, charming eye winking, no more push up, no more piled up hair.
Recognizable "Classique", a little also "Ma Dame", not quite young anymore, but not too adult.
A late spring, an early summer morning, when the sun soon warms the garden.
Tight to my skin, he doesn't flood any rooms, not even the car, nobody escapes.
A fragrance for grey and sunny days, for naked arms and furry muff.
Not for the rest of my life - my life - but I certainly won't push him from the edge of my bed...
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Stacia
