Tea parties

The back garden was shining yellow under the late sun on that summer afternoon. There were two deck chairs and a garden table covered with a white tablecloth. Some candles. A plate of biscuits, another of cakes, chocolate éclairs and walnut cake. A pot of Earl Grey, the milk jug and the sugar bowl. Two tea cups. A wooden box of grass with a grinder and papers side by side with the teapot.
Rupert took a last look. The door bell rang.
Lucy was in the door, ravishing. She follow him with a smile. He had a perky bottom. In the garden she laughed.
"Are you trying something inappropriate, Rupert?"
"Oh, yes!"
"Your sincerity is inspiring, my dear".

It was already dark, just some biscuits left, no tea. The ashtray full of joint butts. Two small glasses with something mesmerisingly green. Rupert and Lucy. Laughing and kissing. Naked. Ready to howl at the moon. At all the three of them.
But wolves don't do what they did on their knees.
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The cats we don't have

Rupert hadn't a cat either. Nor even an imaginary one. But there's one ginger with only one ear and a half. Sometimes he leaves the left-overs at the back door. Sometimes the cat comes. His cat doesn't have a name, either. But he owns it and knows it. Maybe only knowing, because nobody can claim ownership with a cat. Just a path you walk together. But Rupert knows his ginger unnamed cat. It's like Lucy, unfriendly and disdainful. Walking on the back of the hammock, jumping over the windowsill, teasing Rupert when he's trying to take a nap.
No, you never own a cat.
Maybe, if you are lucky, a cat owns you.
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The hell in the morning

He woke up with the birds. He ate the left-overs of the rabbit from the night before and had some coffee. As usual. But his compass was pointing at "adventure". The adventurer packed his belongings quickly and started to walk. Didn't matter which direction, adventuring was a state of mind. He crossed a valley and climbed the hill, but nothing happened. The air was quiet, everything was so right it seemed unreal, a perfect moment crystalised. But perfection doesn't exist. It had to be a dream. The next valley was crossed by a river. There was a bridge, the old stones green through the ages, and on the other bank there was a Tudor cottage. The kind that had old aunties embroiding inside. But the voice that said "Come in!" was sweet and languid as honey melting down under the sun. His cock itched.
The inside was shadowy, heavy dark curtains in the windows. Some candles on the table. The big mirror reflecting the trembling flames. An odd hissing sound. He closed the door. "Come here, my boy" she said. He obeyed. Mesmerised. Here was the remotest corner. She was sitting in her boudoir, looking at herself in the mirror. He only could see her shadow, her white back, her blonde hair. He kept walking. Close enough to see the devious snake around her waist. And when he was closer he saw her red lips and red nipples. She searched his gaze in the mirror. She found it and kept it. She ran her finger around her red nipples and gave it to him. He licked it. Then she took a paperknife and draw a line in her own pale shoulder. Blood dripped. She took some with her finger and painted her already red lips with it. He swallowed. Hard. Again she took more blood and painted her nipples. She smiled at him on the mirror. She said "Do you fancy a drink, boy?" He hold her hand and licked the blood. "Yes, ma'am."
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Somewhere in limbo land

Rupert avanzaba espada en mano, lentamente, esquivando ramas bajas y troncos caídos. El bosque se espesaba por momentos, cada vez más denso, impenetrable. El ruido ya no era importante, sólo no quedar atrapado. El sudor se le escurría cuello abajo, los músculos tensos, intentando no perder la calma. De repente al apartar unas ramas un río apareció a pocos pasos de distancia. No había ningún puente a la vista, aunque sí una casa al otro lado. Una granja. Logró vadear con éxito el río y llamó con decisión a la puerta, a medias mojado y a medias enfadado. Nada tenía sentido. La voz que le invitó a entrar, sin embargo, era soleada y vibrante, los paradisíacos mares del sur pero también sus violentas tormentas estaban contenidas en aquella voz de mujer que simplemente dijo "¡Adelante!"
La puerta crujió al abrirse, dejando a la vista un cómodo salón con amplios ventanales. Los muebles eran todos de madera, pero no toscos, y las cortinas y bordados parecían de buena calidad. Al fondo un tocador. La mujer le habló desde el espejo, sin girarse. "Acércate". Y Rupert se acercó sin dejar de mirarla, sin dejar de notar su propio reflejo cada vez más cerca del de ella. Ella. Era rubia y el picardías transparente no ocultaba su blanca espalda ni la serpiente tatuada que se perdía cadera abajo. La cabeza le daba vueltas y la duplicidad del espejo acentuaba su confusión. Ella. Ella no lo miraba, sino su reflejo. La boca era roja y la piel muy blanca. Rubia. Resplandeciente. "¿Quieres beber?" Rupert asintió, o quizá lo hizo su yo atrapado en el espejo. Ella cogió un abrecartas del tocador. El corte en el hombro fue limpio. La sangre brotaba despacio. "Bebe", le dijo. ¿Quién lo hizo? ¿Rupert o su otro yo?
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Estotiland

No existe nada mejor. Ni siquiera los besos de bienvenida. Nada se compara a los mapas con grandes extensiones marcadas como "terra incognita". Quizá, no es seguro pero quizá, esos mapas que en lugar de lo desconocido señalan islas fabulosas, continentes perdidos. El aventurero es incapaz de asegurar sus propias apetencias. No sabría decir qué le gusta más. Perderse por sendas inexploradas o viajar hacia tierras que no existen.
En ambos casos se mea en los mapas.
Metafóricamente hablando.
(Sólo una vez fue literal, pero ésa es otra historia.)
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The Bubble Revisited

In the begining there was a lamp post. And rain. But in the middle of the afternoon the sky turned clear and a clean sun brightened the tea. There is something wonderfully simple in a tea party in the garden. Slices of white bread with honey and cheese, tomatoes, ham, cucumber. Amusing tea time on a lazy sunny afternoon.
It rained a lot, though. Then was time for a fireside tea, playing chess on the rug. The day falling outside the windows, darker and darker while the rain beat on the house. But the bed was tempting and cosy and really, of all the wonderfully simple things, spooning was the best.
Once upon a time, there was a white house in Bubble Land. The house had a grandfather clock in the living room. The clock was broken. It stopped at tea time.
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Back to square one. Again.

Sometimes Lucy remembered when she was alone in F. Land. When she was the only one to suffer for her own mistakes. Now, now it's different. Now she isn't alone. Lucy knew that not every thing can be undone, not every path can be gone back on. You have to walk.
It was a pretty day, a bit sunny, a bit windy. But smooth, very smooth. Tea parties and ginger biscuits. Strawberries with cream and champagne. Ascot was close. The joy of being in F. Land hiding anything else.
Lucy was sad. Lucy cried.
Lucy smiled because she had another path to walk.
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