A romantic interlude
Two men are dancing at a bar in Buenos Aires.
One man is dressed in black on white, while the other man, the younger of the two, wears white on black.
Reversed images, like night and day, like two sides of a coin � opposites, excluding each other?
It�s the hour before sunrise and the night hangs stale under the high stucco ceiling. Smoke circles upward in the warm air, mingling with the sounds of a melancholy tango. It�s the hour when nothing feels real anymore.
The bar�s almost empty by now; in the background a waiter has already started moving chairs and cleaning up tables, another one collects empty glasses and full ashtrays. Nobody pays much attention to the two men in the middle of the dance floor who are caught up in a slow rhythm of their own. They�re dancing forehead to forehead, with closed eyes, oblivious to the world around them.
�I shouldn't be here �� the dark-haired man begins.
�And yet you are.�
�I wish I didn't have to leave again tomorrow. Just thinking about it makes me sick.�
�Shhhh.�
The man wearing the white, irregularly fastened shirt, one button closed, two loose, sighs and shrugs his shoulders awkwardly.
�I start missing you from the moment I close the door behind me.�
�What if I didn't let you go this time?�
The younger man chuckles softly. �I guess I'd have to stay then.�
�I want you to stay. Not just for tonight.�
The dark-haired man opens his eyes � and is lost, just as on the day he first met that trueblue gaze. He smiles shyly, happiness spreading on his face like a warm glow from within. The other man returns his smile openly.
�You know I mean it.�
�I know.�
The man wearing black on white, the man with the sandy hair, who leads his partner so gracefully, twirls him around in sync with the music. �Then why ..?�
The younger man shakes his head vaguely, reluctantly, and puts a finger to the other man's lips, slightly tracing the scar that starts there. �Don�t ��
His companion doesn't reply - there are no words, not enough words or too many altogether - instead he leans in closer. They're dancing cheek to cheek now. If you looked down on them from the balustrade you'd see dark golden strands perfectly aligned to deep brown curls.
Reversed images, like night and day, like two sides of a coin � opposites, completing each other?
They keep on dancing. After a while, with his eyes fixed on the musicians, or at some point far, far away, at a vision only he can see, the blue-eyed man whispers,
�Ya eres m�a. Reposa con tu sue�o en mi sue�o.
You're already mine. Rest with your dream inside my dream.
Ningun m�s, amor, dormir� con mis sue�os.
No one else, Love, will sleep in my dreams.
y ya no soy sin ti sino s�lo tu sue�o.
And without you, I am only but your dream."
There is a muffled, unidentified sound coming from his counterpart. The poetry man swallows hard when he feels wetness on the other man's cheek.
�I don't deserve you,� the button boy mumbles.
�Nonsense. I don't regret a single moment.�
�We never had Christmases together, or Thanksgivings. I couldn't even come to St.Lawrence ��
�We had lonely beaches instead and little streetside cafes where nobody recognized us. And endless nights like this � �
�And this is enough for you?�
�I'll never get enough of you. As long as I live.�
The music waves intricate clusters around them, the tango tunes sail down on them before popping up in their faces like huge, iridescent soap bubbles. This is the blue hour and tomorrow they may not remember anymore whether all this was real or just a dream. Abruptly, the younger man pauses and stands frozen. His eyes are darker than midnight.
�As long as you live?�
�Yes.�
At that the lanky lad makes a funny face, as if he didn't quite know whether he should be laughing now or crying. Finally, he smiles, too.
�Take me back to our hotel. I want to be alone with you.�
Nodding, the other man takes him by the hand. �Yeah, let's go back. I want to sleep in your arms. And in your dreams.�
They nod to the musicians and leave the bar. Outside, it's getting day already, the air tastes fresh and cool. The light spreading from the horizon is bright and pale and pure. Side by side, they walk down the empty streets, arms slung over each other's shoulders. Again you'd notice black on white and white snuggling up on black.
And later, if you could see them in their hotel room, on the big bed, white sheets barely covering them, you'd find them sleeping, a tangle of tanned limbs, here an arm, there a thigh, a head buried under the pillows, hands that are still entwined.
Perhaps you wouldn't see at first whose arm or leg belonged to whom. It seems they're no longer separate parts contrasting each other.
Night and day have met at dawn. They kiss, they whisper sweet nothings to each other and exchange gentle caresses. And when they finally come together, skin safe against skin, slick, wet, hot, panting, moaning, two bodies perfectly aligned, with Viggo pushing in, deep, hot, slow, his hands on Orlando's hips, Orlando leans back into their embrace, shuddering, because it feels so perfect, so right.
And at that, black turns into white and white turns into black and then into something new.
A.N. The lines Viggo quotes come from the sonetto LXXXI by Pablo Neruda; and the expression "skin safe against skin" is, of course, a little tribute to our favour poetwriteractor.
