It was a cold night. One of those nights where the ice steams up the windows’ cars while your body heats up and the city is a silent ash of fog. He was waiting for sleep to fall heavy on his eyelids: “To sleep, to die. No, no how did that damn poet say?” He thought out loud before blowing the last cigarette’s smoke. “To die, to sleep… come my sweet death so I can get another glance of her.”
He wasn’t sure whether it was love, obsession or simple folly he was wary of her like the poison and yet he needed her like water that quenches a man lost in the desert. Suddenly it came clear to him: falling in love was a bit like falling asleep, slowly and deeply. He blamed the stars for that; he cursed the full face of the moon that every night with her charm and mystery could turn a man into a beast.
Then sleep came and so did she with her black gown that fell to her bare feet. The soft, deep plunge of her dress allowed a glimpse of her round breast half hidden by her long hair provocatively parted over the shoulders. A shudder passed through his body as she sat beside him: “Maybe I’m the one dreaming,” she whispered softly in his ear. And then she enticed him, she clasped him with passion and strength as afraid to let go of that dream and its ephemeral pleasure.
As they both sunk into the love pleasure, the moon laughed at their fate getting dressed, behind a cloud, of a poker shape. The loud tick of the clock made it impossible for her to sleep. She put her black gown on and looked outside the blurry window. “To sleep, to die… No, how did that damn poet say?” She laughed out loud before blowing the last cigarette’s smoke.
And the city was a silent ash of fog…