Drinking the can of beer he sat on a stone step under an oak tree which shivered in the breeze.
He missed her body tremendously. The milky white stretch of its yawn. The geometry of the female torso.
It had abandoned him several months ago. And although he felt a certain symbiosis- it was of the body. The physical love which Serge Gainsbourg called a dead end. He had loved her, and still loved her despite her vicious betrayal. What was missing was the physical realisation of that love- her body and its touch which was electrifying.
A kiss of distance
A fuck of absence
A mask of charisma
A cold night of abuse
In the swastika camp of love.
A wound which heals
A wedding which parts
A hell of a heaven
A lover which wipes the grin
Off your mother-fucking face.
He took another drink and blinked into the blue-gray dusk.
He remembered how she would go pissing in the bushes of Berlin. He would wait alongside, smoking a cigarette.
Men and women were different species, and he reflected upon this schism. The basic name for all men was Pierre, and the basic name for all women was Marina. Men as solid and constant as stone- and women as changeable as the sea. This fundamental difference lead to a lot of confusion in matters of the heart.
She: Maybe some day I will kill you.
He : Maybe it would be OK. It would depend
upon the moment I guess. It would depend
if it felt right or not. Anything is OK if it
feels right. Even death.
For her living with another person restricted her space. For him it was an expansion.
He sat upon the stone step and thought about her last statement before she vanished. “You cross too many borders!” she had screamed.
And then, just at this moment of reflection, something happened as if oracled by some divine force. An old man came up to him. He was dirty and unshaven. He was apparently one of the drunks who hung out on the park benches all day. The old man put his hand on the stranger’s shoulder and said in a darkly hypnotic German: Where there is true love, there are no borders.