The smell of a stranger

Another story to add to my blog...

There are those who walk amidst the greyness of the people, they walk with confidence but move slowly, gently. Not in a hurry. When they pass by, they attract our attention because they do not live among the people; it is the people who live around them and it seems that the world hardly touches their existence. They are those who emanate a particular, different perfume, to which one cannot resist...

I saw her arrive where Gorokhovaya crosses Sadovaya. I noticed she was still far away, on the sidewalk on the other side of the street, where every day thousands of souls touch each other without looking at each other, each focused on himself and his own thoughts. She was advancing with the sure step of one who smells of flowers, bitter citrus fruits and spices.

When the traffic lights lit up green I realized that I would meet her, that she would pass by, and the reality around me started to slow down until it stopped completely, as if an invisible hand had blocked the hands of the clock of time.

Then I had her in front. Exactly in front. My feet in front of her shoes, my hips in front of her skirt, my breasts in front of her jacket. She was in front of me. As in a mirror I reflected in her eyes and it has been like a breath of warm wind on my face, a jet of fresh water on my breast.

There are eyes that look but are absent, detached, distant. Hers, on the other hand, looked at me and held me tight. I knew I would never see her again, that after that look I would have lost her forever, but in that brief instant she made me hers. She tied me with an invisible thread to her thoughts. I looked at her and I desired her with desperation, how when we want what we will never succeed in having.

She smiled at me and apologized. I too, in an imperceptible way, looking down, returned the smile. Then she avoided me, calmly. She passed by me and I smelled her: she scented of a freshly washed blouse, of charm, of seduction, of passion, of caresses, of tears, of feminine fragility... and of sex. Mixed aromas that intoxicated my senses.

With my eyes closed I imagined her abdomen and her pubis. I imagined her breast with a star-shaped tattoo that told her story. I imagined my hands and my mouth on her, and I saw myself descend along the soft folds of her body.

I fantasized about overthrowing her with impetus on the ground, of tying her to me, of melting me to her caresses, of cradling me to the sound of her voice, of letting her kisses dry me up, of losing me in her arms and to make her vibrate with pleasure until to hear her to shout. For a moment, that brief moment suspended in the limbo of the imagination, I dreamed of her perfumed body before the invisible hand freed the clock hands and gave the way back to the passing of Time.

Then the world started to work again and now I have only the memory of her; the smell of a stranger and a shiver dissolved in the gray crowd behind me on the other side of the road.

Chiara Di Notte

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