Poetry, dreams, desire, everything leads me to youJohann Wolfgang von Goethe
The Sad Cafe II
You Can Tell me Tell me how you pass the hours. That slanted smile, does it hide shackles of pride? (I have mine too). You are my obsession, undulating sensations that can’t be restrained. What I know of you, I have learned through osmosis, the taste of ozone, like breathing air. In worldly dreams, I am wearing leather waiting for you in a Parisian cafe. Is there shame in what we are compelled to do? Tell me. by Holly Hunter, House of Heart
“No. There is no shame between lovers,” I tell her. Renate’s hand in mine, I examine her fingers, now wise to the world and labor, yet still elegant, perfectly manicured in a French tip. How careful she is in her attention to sensual allure. Orchid lips draw my soporific gaze, and I long to be there to taste the wine and hear a sweet moan of desire.
We listen to a classical violin played by Genette Neveu reincarnated, looking directly at us, smiling, her head emphasizing each power chord. It’s as if she is urging us. “Go now, don’t wait. Go, live your heart’s desire. Be foolish. You can keep your reservations and virtue elsewhere for a while. Go now,” she urges.
The bow dances and the music hypnotizes. The musician drifts through shadows cast by the warm lamps in our sad cafe. Her face beaming, her head an apostrophe to racing arm and bow.
Renate leans into me, her cheek unafraid of my shoulder. The violinist’s approving eyes appraise the vision before her, and she slows the draw of rosin on a string. What sorcery this cupid brings to my heart as the melancholy sound seeks to match Renate’s breath, urging us to fall into our dream.
I glance down, and in the corner of my eye, I see the lift and fall of contentment through Renate’s long tresses spilled over a blushed decolletage and beyond on the booth is her purse. The gold and abalone flask has peeked out; finally returned to its owner and refilled with a tempting Delord Armagnac that has a finesse like the woman I so desire beside me.
The violinist has won. She knows it. Now the strings deliver the coup de grace, and we rise to dance slowly in the shadows as the other wayward lovers do. Nothing more exists except the scent of a woman and the feel of her beating heart against my chest.