Alone, he drove the wet and deserted streets of the sleepy town, listening to oldies at the whim and mercy of a disc jockey from a distant radio station. Memories were flooding through his mind as the music flowed. All of his life, he has been falling in love and each song brought back what was then the only one. By the time the third song was over, he parked his car underneath a lonely street light. He stepped out, lit a cigarette, and walked down a wooded hill in the light drizzle and falling fog.
His elbow accidentally brushed her breast. They were both around twelve. He was reaching out to kiss her on the cheek for the very first time. It was a hot summer afternoon and they were on the roof of a long-gone building. It was round, her breast. Round and firm and small and beautiful and it was worth the whole of his life. Nothing that ever came afterward was as magical as that moment.
He stood in an airport kissing her goodbye. He could never get enough of her lips. They were red and they were parted and they were strawberry sweet. It was the last time they would ever see each other. The smell of her hair stayed on him. When he reached the empty apartment, he stared down at the unmade bed. He threw himself upon it, sniffed her and cried for a long, very long time.
She was taking a shower as he lay in bed. When she’d come out he’d tell her that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. No. Why wait! He knocked on the bathroom door. It was partially open but he didn’t go in. “What” her voice came from behind the curtain. He hesitated, then mumbled something stupid like “...nothing I’ll tell you when you come out”. He sat on the sofa facing the box but not watching it. She came out, gift-wrapped in a white towel and sat on his lap. She kissed him and asked him what he had to tell her. He held her close and worshiped the smoothness of her fresh and milky skin. He never said a word. Days later she was gone.
He got back in the car. The deranged disc jockey was still playing nostalgic oldies. There was a fourth, a fifth, a… fuck the radio. He switched it off.
Was it a smile at the corner of his mouth or was he just licking the honey off the walls
of his memory? He drove on toward the lights feebly shining from behind the drapes of closed windows.