I gently hugged the doorknob, without the fear that my digital signs would be impregnated in the sharpness of the bronze, smoked in the colonial style, offended by the grease of my work under 5 cars whose brands I do not remember, the ones that I barely saw in inert horizontal. I turned to the left the 83 degrees necessary for the guttural creaking of the bolt, which immediately expelled a cool halo from the internal environment, a contrast to the deadly heat of the Rímac River Valley, in whose darkness the new hotel was lost, aged to the brave with uselessly claimed half a century in original building style.
27 degrees of opening were enough for the dim internal light to illuminate my anxious cheekbones, to put more than the nose inside that room that bubbled with sweat, like a mare developed in the farms of young African palm. I ajar at 49 degrees, 52, 58.5 and almost passed, I lowered my gray fisherman's hat, I felt the internal ice on my sweaty temples, in my wet hair from 16 hours of literal work to force.
In the background, I could see the choppy highlights of your curls, golden moments, brown moments, tending to red, to iridescent. Just that, the rest just the silhouette of a real mermaid under a white sheet whose digital model turned your sculpture, balancing the 18 degrees of conditioning of the enough 8 BTUs. Gently, I sealed the door behind my back, and dropped the suitcase Targus Mercilessly to the ground, thundered the external hard drive that was surely in the background, little or nothing mattered. From then on I felt how your cold leveled my heat, he called me without saying anything, he pushed me saying come at once! I could almost feel your words in every pore of my skin. 5 meters, four, three, falling like the garments of my excess.
Then, my eyes got used to the gloom of your stroke, I could see that bodice in bright beige, enclosing two motives sufficient for the soul, in a soft sketch like 4H pencil highlighted with perverse down. With obvious enhancement, the mid-tropic cusps stood out in small protrusions, aligned with the planets of the moment, of the last half hour of waiting, of the 23 logarithmic messages, inversely proportional to the distance. At a quarter height, the sheet covered the rest, leaving to the imagination that turned bone that makes up your waist, and your legs in a closure at the end of feet in one.
I walked, I felt your breath close when you took my cheeks, you scraped my pointed beard, when you took my shirt and pulled so close that I even swear I saw a carbuncle in glitter. The flavor of your mint candy stuck to my lips, and I felt in my soul the breath of your aroma, mixed with the inexorable flavor of your pupils that were hidden behind curtains of tender eyelashes.
I imagined within my echoes, the gradual descent of your perfume, down your back, through your belly, through your life. I imagined the strong beat of your blood, on your lips, in your eyes, in my temples. I felt real like the pain of the marrow deep inside, like the desire to cry, to laugh, to die. I imagined your breath, your face, your silhouette, from the door, if it opened ...
I touched the handle again, touched the wood again, went back to my room, and put my feet on the ground for the third and last time.
I was aware of the eternal and only truth. You did not arrive.