Consciousness expands once, consciousness expands twice, consciousness expands three times. It’s expanded. Like pupils. Like the territory of life. Like the angle of vision. Like the angle of the room. Quietly, I leap out of the corner; the screen fades. 420… onwards with the text…
Walk! Walk! I’ve put something on. Something was missing. Something was too much. I’m walking out of the entrance. I don’t notice the magic of the approaching night. I have my phone on my belt. I’m buying cigarettes. I’m sitting on the sidewalk between two car rear ends, right in front of a streetlight. I’m looking at the last blue reflection in the darkening sky. I’m standing in an arch, listening to the rustling sounds.
I’m holding your hand. I’m stumbling. I don’t recognize your face in this painted head.
I’m thinking. I’m confessing. I’m confessing that only with you… only you… only then… only once… I was dishonest. Wrong. I threw you away. I couldn’t? It’s normal. I hurt you. No one else. I’m ashamed. I won’t forget.
We’re buying two bottles of wine. We’re holding hands with our pinkies. We’re walking to the forest. We’re kissing on the path. We’re scaring the trees. Again and again… Kissing on the bench. Do you remember that bench? No, do you remember? You remember, you said “I’m a gentleman” and took out “what a gentleman always has with him.” My first sex outdoors. Do you remember? The nursing home. The forest. The bench. Your whisper. Do you remember?
Two kilograms of strawberries in the middle of the night. Do you remember? Do you remember?
I remember. I remember the elevator and the surprised faces of those on the sixth floor. “Anything, just stay!” We accidentally pressed 6 instead of 9. I remember how you brushed my teeth. You. Brushed. My. Teeth. I was lying almost unconscious. I was drunk. And you brushed my teeth. I remember.
Let’s go to my place. We’ll go to my place. We’ll go now, I’ll undress you. I’m tired of kissing your neck. I want more. You want lower. It will be lower. Everything will be. There will be fingers. There will be “Are you ready?” There will be “Did you make it?” There will be a scream. And there will be a whisper.
And you’ll leave at night. You won’t stay. Because I lost you once. You don’t trust me anymore. You told me you loved me. I didn’t see it. Didn’t know. You wanted to marry me. You introduced me to your mom. Even your grandmother. You wanted children from me. You were only 18.
You’re 22. You’ll go to a concert by Guests from the Future. You’ll seduce Eve. You’re funny. You’re eating chicken in my kitchen. You’re hungry. You’re finishing a bottle of Moldovan wine. You’re still the same child, Romeo. Arthur. Tell me your other names. Boy. Sweet. Lips. Eyes. Tenderness. Affectedness. Voice. Arthur. Arthur.
“Will you call me again in a year?” I’m ashamed. I wish we could still talk. But there’s nothing possible between us anymore. Is it possible? We once went through this path. Do you remember your toaster as a symbol of your moving in with me? I don’t have a toaster. I have a microwave— a gift from my ex. Do you remember your wet jacket? You came to me in the rain. And I cried on your shoulder. The pain left. It left. I could love again.
I remember everything. To the sigh. And our conversations—without words.
Goodbye, boy. I’ll call you in a year.