He goes to the record player and picks out the Machine Head album. At some point that day he would listen to it again

 

He woke up early as usual, but this time laziness gave him permission to get up suddenly. At the sink, he finally shakes off the sleepiness and the sleepiness that haunts his thin, pale face.

He goes to the record player and picks out the Machine Head album. At some point that day he would listen to it again.

His beard was unshaven, just like the day he met her; rough. It is in the least opportune moments that love passes by like delayed trains in the empty and dry stations of our hearts. When our hearts are hand in hand with autumn, we don't expect vibrant leaves.

And it was on one of those days that she, all chlorophyll, photosynthesized that poreless soul. When he crosses the hallway and reaches the living room, he smells the scent of the previous night. A sleepless night. On the table, the unlit cigar, the coffee cup, and the old Strato beer thrown on the floor are the trinkets that adorn that fragrant morning.

For him, the combination of the taste of Cuban cigar leaves with a cup of good Brazilian coffee was sublime. It was only surpassed by the scent of her orgasm. For that orgasm was the fusion of all six senses. To feel her hands relax after the fury, to inhale her deepest perfume, to kiss her sweat tenderly, to hear the song of her sigh, to see her close her eyes to sleep. And the sixth, the noblest of senses: To love her. Only to love her. Redundantly to love her.

As she got dressed, he remembered her favorite Neruda, whispering it once more, like a prayer, so that she wouldn't forget the day of their first kiss.

At the bus stop, leaving our usual diner, fueled by wine and guided by Bacchus, the sky decides to send its blessing in the form of drops, many drops of rain.

Completely soaked and drunk, the two were nothing but smiles and laughter. And it was right there, in that endless wait for transportation that had become completely unnecessary, that he noticed her eyes were the color of metal, and then he kissed her.

He finished dressing, almost transported back to that moment. He looked at himself in the mirror. He had to be impeccable. The best suit, the most expensive tie, and the spritzes of Jean-Paul Gaultier, brought back from last New Year's in the City of Lights.

Only the unshaven beard detracted from such elegance, but it was the boss's taste, there was no arguing with her.

He picked up his hat and cane from the young man beside the door, and, with his metal eyes, went to the funeral of the woman who had lived with him for 47 years.

 

I love the piece of land that you are, because of all the planetary plains I have no other star. You repeat the multiplication of the universe.

Pablo Neruda