She always knows exactly when the cab driver is going to turn left after the intersection. Her watch shows the same time, like any other evenings when she comes to his place. The last nine months. The cab driver stops exactly in front of the address she indicates. She always rings the bell of the building at around 20:00, sometimes 20:05, sometimes 20:10. The weather could be good or bad, rainy or blue sky, she always arrives at his place around that time. She never needs to ring the bell when she reaches the 3rd floor. He always leaves the door open. The TV is most of the time turned on when she enters the apartment. Most of the time he is there, waiting for her. He has his usual smile. He always greets her in a joyful way.

Winter has arrived the last two weeks, yet, his skin still gets this color of honey. He only lives in this city in the North a few days a week. The rest of the time, he is living in the South where the sun never stops shining. He must have spent his weekends under the sun or out there by the beach, or somewhere near the coast. He told her that he has recently bought a small fisherman boat. That would explain his all-year round tanned golden skin.

After all those months, she is still surprised she finds him each time that gorgeous. She is almost scared to become that superficial because she always finds him too handsome and that would be the only reason making her come to his place or liking him. His beauty, she takes it as a ray of sun, a snowflake, or even sometimes her own breathe. His features, his skin, his eyes. Once beautiful, always beautiful. That is what people say. A face that has lived the pleasure, the dreams and the impetuosity. She looks at him and wonders: “has he ever been hurt or vulnerable?” It is hard to tell. He is standing there, right across the kitchen, joking about his talent of cooking a unique tomato sauce. He is smiling to her. She looks at him and wonders: “has he ever hurt someone with this smile?” It is hard to tell. Maybe at some point, in his past, there have been some left scars for him and for others.

The questions she asks are not relevant or important. Every time they enjoy each other until exhaustion. Spontaneous physical passion. Kissing him is like licking a thousand flavor of ice cream all in one, trying to detect which flavor is the best. Each kiss, sweet and deep with his soft tongue, tastes like a small piece of roasted peach, having its own soul. It is like he knows that the only way to reach her is to kiss her.

The windows with no curtain, the lights from inside the apart show the shadows of them slowly taking off their clothes, guessing the steady desire of making love. They hold each other close, and never stop kissing. Their hands looking for their naked skin under the clothes, the skin that vibrates with each caress. There is a raging fire spreading through the room but also a controlled ardor to prolong the moment. They know they cannot leave until they finish consuming the heat inside them. Fire has sealed off all windows, leaving them only one thing to do: make love madly. This magical craziness of desiring someone so strong, the need of flesh so savage and so primitive. At least that is what she feels each time. There is always a moment when she loses consciousness of time and space, where am I? Am I on earth? Or in heaven? But there is always also a moment when she stops thinking and only focusing on her five senses, allowing her to fully feel each movement of his hips when he is inside her.

She starts to call him “the best” lately. He has become the best lover she has ever had. Lately, he puts on Bach when they make love. When she comes, several times each time they are together, she remembers exactly with which piece of Bach, which melodies, which instruments. Each time it is divine. Having an orgasm with him, with Bach music in the background, is self-redemption. That is what she knows and feels. When he is inside her, she feels like she has never made love before. She feels new and fresh. When he comes, his pleasure is intense. When they finish, it is not finished. The abnormal magical pleasures they feed each other turn other pleasures into some normal, insignificant ones. The red wine, the dish of pasta with his unique tomato sauce, a soccer game shown on television or a movie he chose but never gets to watch until the end.

Yet, they are different types, she guesses. He seems full of energy and ambition. Young, he would surely see the world as a scented fruit waiting to be eaten, as the world certainly has been opened up to him and his beauty easily. She is a nerd and, for her, life is something rational, like a cake with layers of cream, organized and sweet but predictable. She has learned with him not to ask lots of questions or to think too much. She always knows that most of men do not like women who think and ask too much questions. There is no frustration to not asking questions. On the contrary, it is a way to preserve mystery after having shared that fire of physical passion. She believes their differences increase their mutual attraction. They have developed a certain intimacy, not the physical one only, but also some closeness. It is quite unavoidable once they share a regular physical intimacy. But not asking too many questions keep them from falling in love. Because falling in love is letting go and they never really let go. The reasons behind it are multiple. One of them is that it is not easy to fall in love. It demands availability, willingness and there are not so many ways to fall in love but there are many ways to avoid it. But there might be one drop or two of loves or affection in there, when they are together, enough to feed, let’s say a bird or a plant. Who knows? And this does not mean that they do not care for each other. She cares about him and she believes he knows that without her formulating it. Should he ever need her if his close ones are not right beside him, he could always call her. After all those months, he might know that already.

It would be unfair to say it is just lust between them. To enjoy the sex with someone that much and the way they do, there must be more than just lust. The way she kisses him, it is like to show him how important he is in the world. The way she receives him inside her, it is like to acknowledge that he is creative and has such an imaginative mind. Look at the buildings he built, making love to him is like embracing those creations. You cannot make love with that kind of passion unless you soak up the other person’s thoughts, mind and dreams at the same time. Lying there on his bed, like a lizard basking in the sun, she can feel life in all the shades and tones. Each story of each person, once being someone’s lover is a fairytale, a variation of mental and physical unique experience. Self-discovery, experimental kissing, self-examination, orgasmic introspection; that is what it is, every single week, when they get a chance to see each other. There will be no boredom, there will be no routine as they have to re-invent themselves each time. Even the red wine tastes differently each time. The pasta sauce with another touch each time. The intensity of the kisses varies. The songs sung by their bodies sound differently each time. Without being sentimental, and even being in the distance, the differences are felt very profoundly.

The sublimation of the sexual desires is part of the beauty and the delight of the story, allowing them to go apart, living their lives separately after that. There is no sorrow but only longing until the next time they meet, that is totally salutary for them and the hopes that their desires will not expire too soon.

She had died and resuscitated with only his voice


I’m just following the plan that has already been laid out. Continuing to live, alone, in this unreasonable world – where there are two moons in the sky…(..) the only choice I have is to believe that Tengo will return to this playground, and to wait here patiently until he does. I can’t leave – this is the only point of contact between him and me. (IQ84 – Haruki Murakami)

She tasted hell. She tasted heaven. In just a few hours. Love was a weak word. She did not even understand what had happened to her. The love was immense, huge, unbelievable. She knew there was something almost insane about her love. People around her started to live this love too. She was contagious. The pain she had felt inside her muscles and bones slowly spread out around her, reaching her people. Her friends started to panic with her. She spread out her doubts, her questions, her insecurity. Nobody could reason her. Everybody turned out nervous and almost insane like her, by the end of the day. Until she could hear his voice, she could not breath. She had not eaten the whole day. She had not drunk anything else than two coffees early in the morning. She had no appetite. She tried to be normal, walking to downtown, doing some groceries, trying to act normally. Second after second. Minute after minute. She felt more and more uncomfortable. She needed so much to hear his voice. She understood vaguely what people said to her. The cashier asked her three times to pay. She stood there. Looking at something in front of her. It could be anything. Nothing really mattered. She walked out of the store, like a zombie. She felt like she had already died and she was just carrying her body around town. A body with no senses, no reactions. She had lost her mind. At the precise moment. She could cry but nothing came out. She tried to get hold of some friends. Nobody answered. She felt very weak again. She could hear her heart, begging her to let the brain win, for once. Please. The heart begged her for rest, for peace. She could not help but promise.

Until she could hear his voice. His sweet, same old as usual voice. Until she could talk to him. And tell him: where are you ?

Until she could hear his voice. And hear him laugh. During the call, she remembered having said to him: I love you, could you feel it ? Could you feel it?

She lost consciousness for a few seconds after that call. The love was immense, huge, unbelievable. Within a few hours, she had died and resuscitated. With only his voice.

Without your love

“Without your love” – Eriko will never have a romantic relationship with anyone again. She has transcended such things. (IQ84 – Haruki Murakami)

I left IQ84 volume 2 after the two-third of the book. I took it with me for this trip. I started it again on the flight to Oslo. I opened the book and here was the chapter I’d left: Without your love.

Am I like Eriko ? Does the love go beyond limits? Does the romantic thought rise above the normal standard?

I don’t know. I just liked that sentence. Very much.

Certainly it’s a bit me.

Probably the “do not know” state has already something pretty much transcending. As much as I try I had never been able to define my love or relationship with him. Yes, probably I had transcended such things too.