VALÈNCIA, 2009

Maybe it was the wine. Red, rich, not too bitter. Or the candlelight spread across the dinner table, making the room warm and shadowed, much like everything else with you. The music made quiet company, smooth with a steady, low bass. As if everything was caught in a constant anticipation. Your eyes were soft, your stare was sharp. It held me down, pulled me in. We didn’t need to say much. You intrigued me, made everything around us feel suspended, deliberate. For all that I knew, all that I felt, it was only the tension that made it real. I could feel every fragile bone in my body, and I was fine with that. It made me present, attentive, captivated by you and all that you touched.

As the hours passed, I wondered if we’d go our separate ways. If this night would be nothing more than a glimpse of what could have been. But something lingered, keeping us from parting. Before I knew it, we were out of the bar and in the cab. You stared out the window and watched the city pass by, and I watched you watch the city pass by. I wanted to reach for you, but even waiting felt like too much. Yet with each headlight passing, I gave in to more and more of myself. I felt at large, beyond my senses. 

When we got to your apartment, I began to notice the pieces of you scattered across the furniture. A dark brown leather couch, books you’d never read, paintings with loose brushstrokes. It was all the best and worst parts of you. I took it all in as you grabbed yet another bottle of wine. We never rushed, never even stopped to think if we should. It was more than an understanding between us, but a sort of need. You told stories about your life away from me, and I genuinely enjoyed them. I recalled old jokes from days I thought I'd forgotten. I heard your laughter and wondered how I’d gone so long without it. 

By late morning, I left. Not with a weight on my chest, but not quite without it either. Time is a funny thing. It shapes us, changes things around us, and somehow remains the only thing we can ever be sure of. But unlike many say, time isn’t cruel. It doesn’t just take. Last night was proof of that. For all time alters, it preserves in essence.

Maybe it was the wine. València, 2009. 

Autoria: Nina Neves

Revisão: Ana Clara Jabur

Foto de Capa: Pinterest