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.
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.
