Smelling of dream

Saturday was the only day which they saw each other on the bed; other ones they got up to different hour. When they woke up together, he always said among the sheets that she smelt to some dream and she asked him what it was, still with a bleary girl’s face. She could imagine it, more or less to have an idea what he could say, but she wanted to hear it from his mouth, that he explained what it was that wording which was so nice for her. He didn’t use to delight her ears with romantic words, so she had decided to resign herself with this. He slacked because he was embarrassed listening to his voice, it seemed to him so twee, so he tried to go away by means of apologies, dragging out the silences, bringing sardonic smiles to his face, or only he rose and went to the bathroom justifying to have an urgency. But scapping from her was not so easy; she waited expectantly on the bed to his return and, when he was lying next to her again, she insisted on the string about what it was smelling to some dream. When he understood that she didn’t give up, he resigned himself, puffed and began his statement.

He had always thought the true beauty of a woman revealed itself immediately after she opened her eyes after passing all night lying down the bed. There was not makeup, nor mascara, nor lipstick. Woman was alone, without dress-ups, showing her real herself. Was that the inner beauty? It could be. He was clear it was the moment which the woman revealed herself fully. And in that moment the sheets provided the cover to that feminity. An overly sweety aroma stayed under the cloth, faintly impregnated with the sweat smell perspired for the night and which stuck to the pyjamas or the nightdress, it depended. The mixture sometimes seasoned itself with the nearly put out remainders of the perfume or deodorant used the day before; the grease of the untidy hair also contributed its little dose to the potion; as the scents rising from the more intimate deeps of the bridal bed; even the expelled breath because of a bad breathing or the acceptance of an uncomfortable position entered in that mixture spattered with the consumed tastes in the dinner.

Everything was part the dream. Everything was a dream.

And she was a dream.

Toni Kukoc Mix

A bit of good basketball

The red shirt

Only he should have seen it because the rest of the audience nor blinked, still attentive to the development of the function as if nothing had happened. One scene that had stretched too much did to look him toward the top for a moment, to an empty zone of audience. The appearance was short, barely a red perceptible hint behind one of the columns of one of the boxes, but enough for him could discover it. Stunned by the sight, he remained silent to see that no one reacted. How could it be that he was the only one who had seen it? It is true that there were many shadows that could lead to confusion, and also the maroon curtain did not help, but it was clear that what he had seen was what he had seen. He was not crazy, far from it. Still he remained silent, not wanting to be branded as a lunatic.
The figure, because of some strange reason and despite his perception had been very brief, seemed familiar.
After the vision, and after several minutes in which the seat seemed to burn his bottom, he decided to get up and leave the stalls. Although he apologized, his departure cost him a rebuke by his stunned girlfriend and several admonitory comments from the audience that was seated in the same row and who had no choice but to stand up to facilitate the passing to him.
He went into the hall nervous, not knowing what to do next, with the resentment about what he had seen. The moment of doubt was dispelled as soon as he noticed a sign pointing the direction of the stairs to the top. He followed the indication up the stairs after taking a look at a building evacuation plan. He calculated the height to which he had discovered the figure and assumed it had been in the gallery, so he continued his ascent. He passed the boxes area and went up the stairs until he met a chain that prevented the access. He jumped it without hesitation being about to stumble. He went up a new flight that led to a corridor through which the entries were distributed to the various boxes of the gallery. The corridor was dark, the only dim light was contributed by the emergency lights contained in corrugated and semi-transparent plastic boxes. He walked quietly along the corridor. When he reached the door where he thought he could find his vision, carefully he opened it after insufflating himself some silent encouragement trying to encourage their curiosity. The door opened without noise. The dim light from the stage slowly peered through the gap that was widening. He entered decided.
The box was empty, so he felt relieved. He told himself that should have been mistaken in his view, since he was convinced that this was the place where he had believed to see her. He poked his head into the yard to verify whether it was the correct position. And indeed, his girlfriend was down there, right in the angle at which he expected to find her. So he was not wrong.
Suddenly he felt a cold chill on his back. He did not want to turn, as the panic had seized up him. Neither could say nothing, not even scream, as if the words had frozen in his throat.
Finally he managed to turn his head a little. On the corner of his eye a bright red appeared; it was a sleeve, which was part of a shirt, a shirt wearing an evanescent figure floating and whose feet were disappearing into the ether.
-But... but... -He could not articulate anything because of nervousness-. I know you.
The figure, who seemed to wear a helmet on his head and to grab an old black telephone, drew a smile and said, after accommodating the handset:
-Is that you are the enemy?