A door opens.
"Excuse me, that's Ms. Henderson?"
"No, that's not Ms. Henderson."
"Oh, Viggo � What are you doing in here?"
"Probably the same as you, waiting, in my case for a Mr.Alvarez from �Hola�."
"Oh, la la la. Your last session for today?"
"Yep. What about you?"
"Same over here. Guess this Ms. Henderson I was supposed to meet decided she already knows enough about Middle Earth. Can't blame her. I'm fed up myself with telling people the same stuff over and over again. The eyes and ears of the fellowship � blah blah blah. Don't mind if she doesn't show up anymore."
"Can't say, I'd miss Sr. Alvarez."
But did you miss me? Orlando almost blurts out, scanning Viggo's face for signs of the old intimacy. Since Orlando's surprise appearance at the press conference earlier that afternoon there had been no opportunity for them to exchange even a few words in private.
Viggo looks good, as always. He seems just as down-to-earth as he's ever been - no matter how luxurious the surroundings. Comfortably, he sits on a smooth shining mahogany table, long legs dangling in the air.
"Lost your shoes again?"
"Orlando." Viggo rolls his eyes. "This joke's getting old. As if I'd do that because I'm the born eccentric. Walking barefoot is good for my back, it's as simple as that."
Orlando can't bite back a grin. "Now, who'd ever think you were a born eccentric?"
"Close the door, Orlando."
***
I've not always lived here.
In my dreams, I can still see a wide canopy of viridian above me, swinging softly in the afternoon breeze. Now and then, bright golden dots of light flicker up high above. Weightlessly they drift down to the ground where the air is thick and sultry, full of mysteries, where countless creatures hide under plants and leaves, and where roots grow deep in everlasting twilight.
In my dreams, I can still feel the rain - warm, gentle showers coming down on me or torrents of water drenching me. Sometimes it's just tiny, weightless drops, as light as a lover's touch. Each time the rain comes like an unexpected gift; something so unique and wonderful that you have to feel it on your skin or you wouldn't believe it really exists.
It's been years and years that I last heard the rain singing to me. Where I live now, the air is always well-tempered, never too dry, nor too damp either. The maids use moist towels to clean and polish my surface. Their hands are soft and gentle, but I miss the water's caress. I miss the rich, humid air. I'm not really alive anymore, just a rare, precious piece of antiquity, bearer of long-forgotten memories.
The man sitting in front of me has no eyes for my beauty. His fingers paint circles on my smooth, shimmering surface, but he doesn't see me. Maybe he's looking at his own reflection mirrored on black mahogany. Maybe he doesn't see at all. He's humming a tune in a low, melodious voice. It must be something in Spanish, memory tells me, though I can't understand each word.
Suddenly, a door opens and another man comes in. The two men start talking and laughing like old friends. Soon I drift off again and pay no more attention to them. So many people walk in and out of these rooms that their faces seem almost interchangeable.
After a while, however, I notice that the atmosphere in the room has changed. Before, there was amicability and friendly banter, now it seems as if the air's charged with electricity. The two men are standing right in front of me now, facing each other. The one with the colourful scarf and the dark curls almost leans against me while the other has cornered him. The older man seems to hesitate; I notice him clench his fists. Once or twice he raises his hands only to let them fall back to his sides soon after.
"Don't you remember?" the younger man says, barely audible. Instead of an answer the other man closes his arms around him. They look at each other for a long moment, both of them very still, holding their breath. Then the man wearing no shoes - Viggo, wasn't that his name? - cradles the younger man's face, fingers spread wide over cheekbones and neck, before he pulls the other one in for a kiss.
It's a shy kiss, almost chaste, as if he fears being rejected. But he isn't rejected. Far from it.
Soon their kisses grow more and more passionate. Now and then, they bump against me and the urgency of their movements transfers itself onto me. I notice fingers tearing at shirts and belts and hands disappearing under waistbands.
"We can't do it over here, what if someone comes looking for us?"
"Didn't you close the door?"
"I did. I did. I even locked it."
"See you planned this the moment you opened the door and saw me."
"No, I'd never � ever �"
More kisses, more fiddling of hands and wriggling out of clothes.
"I always dreamed of doing this on a table. I'd lay you out before me like a feast. I'd spread your legs and then I'd fuck you. Without much preparation. Just like that."
The younger man inhales a bit shakily.
"I'm here. You can have me now."
I can't believe what is happening now. I feel the younger man's naked back pressed against my surface. His skin's a bit damp. His fingers slide off of me, struggling in vain to find something to hold onto, but my polished top�s too smooth.
They don't seem to mind that I'm nothing but a hard, unrelenting piece of wood. They only have eyes for each other; everything around them is forgotten. Their movements are frantic, limbs tangled, fingers entwined, as if they want to possess each other, devour each other, dissolve into one another.
