I gently hugged the latch, without the fear that my digital signs would impregnate in the sharpness of bronze, smoked colonial style, offended by the fat of my work under 5 cars whose brands I do not remember, which I barely saw in horizontal inert. I turned to the left the 83 degrees necessary for the guttural crack of the pin, which immediately expelled a fresh 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 half a century uselessly intended in a style of original construction.
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 gurgled with sweat, like a mare developed in the farms of young African palm. I opened to 49 degrees, 52, 58.5 and I almost passed, I lowered the fisherman gray hat, I felt the internal ice in my sweaty temples, in my wet hair of 16 hours of literal work to force.
In the background, I could see the intermittent glows of your curls, golden moments, brown moments, pulling red, litmus. Just that, the rest only the silhouette of a real mermaid under a white sheet whose digital model turned your sculpture, balancing the 18 degrees of conditioning of enough 8 BTU. Gently, I sealed the door behind me, and let go of the suitcase Targus without mercy on the floor, thundered the external hard drive that surely was in the background, little or nothing mattered. From then on I felt how your cold leveled my heat, called me without saying anything, pushed me saying, come on! I could almost feel your words in every pore of my skin. 5 meters, four, three, falling as the garments of my excess.
Then, my eyes got used to the penumbra of your stroke, I could see that bodice in bright beige, enclosing two motives enough for the soul, in soft sketch like pencil 4H marked with down to the perverse. With obvious enhancement, the mid-tropical cusps protruded in small protuberances, aligned with the planets of the moment, of the last half hour of waiting, of the 23 logarithmic messages, inversely proportional to the distance. A quarter of a height, the sheet covered the rest, leaving to the imagination that turned bone that forms your waist, and your legs in a closing at the end of feet in one.
I walked, I felt your breath close when you took my cheeks, you scratched my pointed beard, when you took my shirt and pulled until I got so close that I even swear I saw a carbuncle in brightness. The taste of your peppermint confection stuck to my lips, and I felt in my soul the breath of your scent, mixed with the inexorable taste of your pupils that hid behind curtains of tender lashes.
I imagined within my echoes, the gradual descent of your perfume, your back, your belly, your life. I imagined the strong beat of your blood, on your lips, on your eyes, on my temples. I felt real as the pain of 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.