Honey, you make me feel invincible
‘What are you writing now George? You always write. Drink and write, that’s all you do. Who are you? Are you you anymore?’
George stopped writing and looked at his wife. She was wearing a thin, white night gown. He could see her underwear and naked breasts, but his gaze focused on his wife’s eyes: they were crying.
In her right hand, a half empty glass was holding some red wine which was slowly swirling. The liquid was dark and thick, emanating the sweet scent of melted rose petals. It was a gift from Dionysius himself.
‘I was writing. About what, I do not know. And yes, I was also drinking, but I have finished my wine. Would you poor me another glass, please? I must leave this room, this city, this earth and fall deep beneath the abyss of my own soul. I need wine for the difficult trip.’
Slowly and wobbly, the wife approached George. She was a bit drunk. Too much from the gods’ nectar and her real emotions were revealing themselves through salty sobs and endless questions.
‘Here. Take mine.’ She put her half-finished glass on George’s papers. A drop of crimson night fell on the written words, distorting their meaning.
George looked at the drop of wine dry out and then evaporate, leaving a dark red stain on the paper. He then looked at his wife, took her right hand and kissed it.
‘Honey, you make me feel invincible.’
Her eyes stopped crying. Big and wet were the two chocolate irises staring at George with kindness and a spark of life that called for the adventure of death and rebirth.
‘Then, I was thinking, how deep was the canyon from which you came and how deep it will be the one in which you will decent.’
George sat down and bowed his head, as if he was apologising for something.
‘When I am back, I will take you into the mountains, to sit at the edge of time and see the changing seasons.’
She pulled his chin up with a soft movement of hand. They looked at each other for a moment and then his wife kissed George on the forehead.
‘When you are back, whatever we will do, we will do it for the right reasons.’
A large truck passed an empty highway across the Mid-West. It was night and the silver moon rays were shining the path for the truck. In a blink of an eye it passed a lonely man in a booth in the middle of the velvet desert. He was calling his lover – James – who died trying to prove the world wrong. But the world was blind to his sacrifice and James died in vain, for the wrong cause: for the truth, which was not desired by many.
George began writing as his wife laid on the sofa behind him to rest and wait.