Dare You Love Me?

“You had golden hair the last time we met.”


“Don’t you like red? It has been four long years, Frank. Do you take me for a spiritless woman? I don’t stay with the same man for more than a year. This is the colour of my hair we’re talking about.”


She looked so beautiful in red. With the world constantly imbibing from the cup of her divinity, she had to.


“Where have you been all these years?”


“Spain! Ah, the Spanish men. They know how to please a woman; they know how to tell her that she’s beautiful.”


If only, she could listen to the hymns his heart sang every time she smiled, every second she lived.


“No se supone que mirar ese hermoso en cualquier idioma!”


These words, with a hint of desperation, were written on her napkin.


She looked at him with questions in her eyes. He looked at her with worship in his heart.


“What does this mean?”


“You are not supposed to look that beautiful in any language.”


When the times are good, they seem to fade away. It took them both, blood and lust, to hold the time back!


“Why don’t you find a woman who deserves your love? Why don’t you look for a dream which isn’t too good to be true? I am just a pretty face.”


“You are unpredictable; you are harsh and untameable like the sea. Yet you’re here, aren’t you? After four years, you’re back with the same man at the same Italian restaurant with the same bottle of wine. Why?”


It is a question she asked herself every night before she went to sleep; before she succumbed to the arms of other men.


“There’s a difference.”


“What might that be?”


“You’re my whore. I say your name and you rise from the dead. I tell you to fight the damned corpses and you ready your sword. I ask you to bow and you worship me. I break your spirit and yet you dare to sleep with me. I love you and you dare love me more.”


A woman, a beautiful and heartless woman, struggled that day. She struggled with her emotions; she struggled with the glass of wine.


The napkin, still clenched in her fist, rejoiced. Why wouldn’t it? It held something far more superior than a prophecy.


Ella no tenía que mirar ese hermoso en cualquier idioma.


She wasn’t supposed to look that beautiful in any language.


“Maybe, there’s a woman out there who doesn’t believe in breaking your spirit.”


She knew she would lose him. And the fear lurked in her words, her trembling lips.

He knew she was scared, for she had never been so beautiful before.


“Maybe, but I am not sure if I could get used to her filling my cup.”


Eighteen years down the road, they still ask him about her story, her name at least. He tells them that he once knew her.


“Why don’t we spend the night, talking? I may not see you again.”


“You will, maybe after a summer that would last forever. Don’t wait for me. I wish to see a beautiful woman with you, the next time we meet.”


“What do I do with the memories and this half empty bottle of wine until then? What do I say to my conscious?”


She couldn’t bear his love anymore. She had to remind herself that for once, she fell in love. Another time, another place and she would have had a fable about them.


He waited for her to show him a path, to walk with him on the path. He waited for her to answer his prayers.


She left, probably never to come back. He watched her leave, probably never to come back. She left a message on the same napkin.


“Remember me, immortalise me with your words, write me a sonnet, paint me as a queen and not a whore, worship me for I have loved you from the moment we cursed each other, and reincarnate with me in another life. The infinities will remember us.”


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