Marco couldn't recall the transition distinctly because the move happened in a haste. The images appeared blurred, scenes filmed from the speeding train that was his life now. He had received the unexpected offer for coordinating the Toronto school and soon after reencountered Marisa after a long separation. When he decided to speak with her days later, he felt lighter but also giddy as if his brain bereft of oxygen suddenly received a gush of pure air. Marco gave up calling Marisa and taking the car. Instead, he walked through the streets. He needed a respite from the mental and emotional overload he'd been managing for the past week. He needed to plan what he would say to her.
It took him a bit more than twenty minutes to arrive at Marisa's neighborhood, marching against the wind that shook the treetops with a hellish rustle. One block from his destination, the rain poured and Marco rushed for shelter under the glass awning of a building. He called Marisa. On the other end of the line, her voice denounced shock. Soon she showed up: a mirage in a gray raincoat holding an umbrella with a rainbow pattern on the curve of the street. Marisa slowed down until halting before him, eyes widening in an interrogation, lips parting to enunciate the question. He scooped her in his arms and didn't give her the chance to say a word. The kiss stretched in the eternity of that moment as thick raindrops lashed at them, the open umbrella tumbling the ground and spiraling away like a wild ballerina.
There, under that yawning, Marco put his fate in her hands. He would leave to Canada if Marisa came along. He would decline the offer if she wished. As he spoke, his heart went jittery because he couldn't predict Marisa's reaction. Perhaps she would simply turn away, calling him crazy, and disappear in the storm. To his surprise, Marisa agreed to accompany him. Her mother obviously opposed it. She ended up accepting the arrangement after they promised her a flight ticket to visit them every year. Preparations started, and he disembarked in Canada in September while Marisa concluded her first year of college in Brazil.
The two of them talked every day and spent Saturday nights awake chatting on Skype. The school had paid a month of hotel accommodation while settled down, thus he dissected classifieds of properties for rent and shared countless links with Marisa. They decided for a downtown apartment seven blocks from Lake Ontario. Situated on the seventh floor of a modern building, it offered a balcony with views of the tree-lined street, laminate flooring, open-plan kitchen and stainless-steel appliances. Marisa was enthralled.
They decorated the apartment together. Or, more precisely, she decorated it. Marco didn't know where Marisa found the time, but the fact is she combed through catalogs on the internet every day and dictated the furnishings—minimalistic pieces made of light-colored wood, an extravagant armchair, acrylic black stools for the bar counter. In the New Year, Marco at last fetched her in the airport. She arrived with a two-hour delay and two gigantic suitcases; he was punctual and waited for her with a bunch of anxious flowers in his hand. It was Saturday morning and they had the whole weekend for themselves.
Thus the two began their new life: with Marisa's delight at seeing the apartment and his pride in showing it to her. They christened the bed straight away—and later the sofa, the kitchen counter, the shower and the living room rug. The working week ensued for him and the final touch of decoration for her, a task to which Marisa devoted herself with tenacity. In the subsequent days, carton boxes of various sizes gathered at the entrance of the apartment.
Friday night Marco came home to find everything finalized. The boxes had disappeared and a new poster in the entrance hall opened up a window to a night view of Toronto with its lights reflected on Lake Ontario. As he hung his coat by the door, Marco heard Ella Fitzgerald singing Too Close for Comfort.
The ceiling lamps in the living room cast luminous cones on the sofa, on the black leather puffs and on a geometrical rug that wasn't there the previous evening. A floor lamp with a red shade, which he saw for the first time, stood guard by the bookcase adorned with Murano glass vases. On the counter separating the living area from the kitchen, an arrangement of Gerbera daisies smiled at him. So did Marisa.
She moved around the counter and welcomed him with a kiss and a glass of red wine. With her light-wool blue dress and a fuchsia daisy in her hair, she invoked the colors of springtime in the height of winter.
"Aren't you cold, Mari?"
"To tell the truth, I'm feeling quite warm. I've spent the day cooking and tidying things." She aimed an expectant look at him. "So, do you like it?"
"I love it," he said, holding her in his arms.
"Let's make a toast, Marco. To the future."
They toasted, drank, swirled to the music until colliding against the counter. The wine spilled on the neckline of Marisa's dress.
"I guess I've just made the grand opening of my new dress," she said, laughing.
"I can take care of that." And Marco trailed her damp cleavage with his tongue.
Marisa stroked his hair.
"You're very efficient, but I have to change."
"Hmm... What you need is a shower." He laid their glasses on the counter. His tone turned wicked. "However, the alcohol has affected your motor skills. You'll need technical support."
Guiding her to the bedroom, he dimmed the bedside lamp, helped Marisa out of the dress and pushed her to the bed. His gaze roamed along her body, lingering on the shades that emphasized the fairness of curves in contrast with black lingerie. On his fingertips, Marco experienced another contrast: the smoothness of skin interrupted by the coarse relief of the lace covering it. Underneath the fabric the flesh became turgid at his command, hardening on the pubis and on the crest of her breasts.
He slid his index on the half-cup of her bra and leaned to sink his teeth into the exposed flesh above her cleavage. The new lingerie still smelled of the manufacturer, but the skin emanated the perfume of Marisa's body, a whiff of wine mixed with vanilla fragrance. Marco inhaled the scents seeking for her essence and, as he captured it, he bit harder. Marisa stiffened, her breathing suspended for an instant. Then she languished and half-closed her eyes.
"Your services include any extras?" she asked in a low voice.
Now Marco nibbled her neck while his hand played with the lace on her cleavage. He straightened himself, hovering over her, his irises enlivened by a sparkle. He fumbled with the contents of the bedstand drawer. The cacophony of items clashing against each other dampened the chords of the ending song. A lapse of silence. Marco found what he sought. In his hand gleamed faintly the ivory die that had followed them since the beginning. They rolled it twice. The second time sealed the game result.
Three more items, used often, came out of the drawer—in the closet a valise stored many more, but those were enough for now. Marisa lay on her back once again, the mantle of her hair spreading over the bed cover with a golden-brown reflex. Marco handcuffed her and tied her wrists to the headboard bar with a silk string.
The blindfold immersed Marisa in a world where textures, smells, tastes and sounds turned sharper. The touch on her face, hot, infinitely delicate. His scent wrapping her in the residue of his working day and the musk impregnated in his shirt. His taste when he claimed her mouth, red berries and spices resonating with the trace of wine on her lips. De-Phazz music whispering in the living room: Eternity is...
Your thoughts are about to fly
In the wings fluttering by
The days past
The now at last
The future a second away
All one and the same
The frontal hook of the bra resisted a little before opening, new metal still without the docility of usage. Marco uncovered her breasts, then his hand reached for the other lace fragment hiding her sex and took the time to remove it, the fabric curling in a protest as it grazed Marisa's thighs. Her high heels sunk into the edge of the mattress. Marco contemplated her, and urgency pulsed in his own body. He ignored it. He entered the closet and returned with the flog in his hands. Approaching the bed, he cracked it, a dry sound that made Marisa quiver.
At the sight of her abandonment, Marco felt a rush of pride and gratitude. Pride that they had built such a bond. Gratitude for her trust. He ran the leather strips between Marisa's legs, smiling when she squirmed with a heave. He circled her navel, wandered once more. Slowly, slowly. Without warning, he lashed at her thighs with brief, light blows to awaken her skin. He varied the rhythm, gradually increasing pressure.
Marisa bit her lip, contracted and relaxed her muscles. She had no permission to talk or emit any sound—her body spoke, though. The epidermis turned rosy and desire glistened between her legs in the scarce light of the bedside lamp. Marco caressed her chest with the strips still warm from her body heat, and Marisa stilled in wait, a telltale vein pulsating in her neck. Marco raised the flog, aimed and concentrated. That area, sensitive and compact, required precision. He hit it with a volatile manoeuver, the strips barely landing on the flesh. A muffled moan budded in her throat. She arched parting her legs in an invitation, in a plea. Marco drew his lips to her ear.
"Not yet."
His footsteps produced a faint rumor on the wooden floor when he left the room and brought a glass and a jar from the kitchen. From the glass, he retrieved ice. The clinking of the cube against the glass preceded the murmur of his hands sliding over her body. Marco traced the lines imprinted on the breasts, and where the ice flowed, it numbed the ardor left by the flog and burned the flesh spared by its strips. The ice descended to the navel, dipped in, played around the belly. It trickled its caress on her sex from top to bottom, and as it trailed up again it disintegrated in Marco's fingers. He anchored his hands on her inner thighs and kissed those other lips, penetrating her with his tongue, dissolving the cold hardness of the ice in the warmth of his breath.
More, she said with the flexing of her legs and the rocking of her hips.
Not yet, he repeated with the refusal of his gesture.
He left her in suspension, soaring in a desire amplified by uncertainty. Marco prolonged the game. He dipped his index in the jar on the bedstand, taking his finger to Marisa's mouth. She sipped the honey to the last drop and continued to suck hungrily. Marco withdrew his finger and leaned in to savor the sweetness on her lips. The motions of his tongue, sinuous at first, changed into a smooth ebb and flow.
Marisa melted in his arms, a tremor, a sigh. Marco undid the silk string, discarding the handcuffs. He removed her blindfold and gazed at her cloudy eyes. The desire he saw in them, unrestrained, unconditional, vibrated in his body, and all the sensations he had suppressed erupted with violence. The blood coursed faster through the veins, making the skin simmer, streaming to his core, overflowing in his chest.
"My love."
"My love," she echoed.
Marco rid himself of his clothes, hands fumbling with the last button of the shirt, shoes tumbling to the floor. The erection—almost painful thanks to the self-control he had imposed on himself—found relief when Marisa's arms girdled him and she received him in her body. Marco moved his hips as her muscles clasped him tighter and tighter. The room turned, turned, turned and went on turning and vanishing. Marco lost himself in a scorching, velvety darkness, overwhelmed by an ecstasy without words for not even a thousand words could describe the sensation of diluting himself in her and merging into her.
Surrender.
The golden thread of energy snaked from one to the other, and thus kept ascending, sex, plexus, heart, nexus. Marisa curved like a wave, first the waist lifting, then the chest and the head projected forward, her hands fastening around his neck so she wouldn't submerge in the ocean, her hands bringing him closer so they would sail together. They were shaken in the intoxication of a spasm, and a long moan at last escaped Marisa's lips. Marco rested his head on the pillow and they remained with their bodies united and their hearts beating in a fitful dialogue. Frenzy became languor and languor became serenity.
"I think it's time for that shower," Marco said, and Marisa laughed.
"Now it's my turn to take care of you."
She rubbed him with soap lingering on the nape of his neck and the back muscles where tension gathered, gliding around the chest and belly. She knelt to wash the rest and, as she rose, Marisa dispersed kisses on his wet skin. Afterward she quickly washed herself and embraced him, letting the hot water embrace both in a blessing.
When they parted, she grabbed a towel and dried him up. The touch of the plush fabric was a caress mingling with Marisa's. She wrapped him in the white robe hanging on the door and slipped into an identical one. They looked at themselves in the steamed mirror, two silhouettes in a dreamy vapor cloud.
Marco nibbled her ear and whispered: "I have a secret to tell."
"Tell me," she whispered back.
"I'm starving."
Marisa paled.
"My pie!"
She ran barefoot to the kitchen, opening the oven to inspect her masterpiece: a pie filled with shredded salmon, goat cheese and fine herbs. It was ruined.
"Oh..." was all she could articulate.
"No problem." Marco, increasingly hungry, hid his disappointment.
They contemplated the corpse and had a minute of silence.
"I so much wanted this evening to be perfect," Marisa rued. "What now?"
They salvaged the filling, added milk and cooked a spaghetti sauce. The salad sitting in the refrigerator fortunately was oven-proof, just like the lemon cheesecake (Marco's favorite). Dinner was a success.
"You worked hard in the apartment today. Now stay put and relax." Marco set to wash the dishes while Marisa perched on her stool sipping wine. He paused, one hand in midair holding the sponge covered in soap bubbles, and turned to her. "Thank you, Mari."
"For what? The burnt pie?" she replied in good humor.
"No. For the pie originating in your heart, taking shape in your hands and getting burnt while you gave yourself to me. It couldn't be more perfect.
They talked about their respective days, a rambling chat without any set destination. Once he had finished, Marco sat beside her and held her hand.
"Do you know the meaning of your name?"
"Yes. It derives from the Latin Maris: from the sea."
"What about mine?"
Marisa smiled.
"It was the first thing I queried when we started dating. Marco also originates from Latin: related to Mars."
"Then you noticed the coincidence."
"What coincidence?"
"In the mythology, Mars and Venus, the goddess born from the sea, fall in love."
"That's why I had a feeling I knew you from somewhere." She dropped the playful tone. "It was tough being away from you after we broke up, Marco."
"Ah, as Mário Quintana would say: Now I—what a denouement!—no longer think of you...
— ... but don't I keep remembering that I forgot you?" Marisa completed.
His gesture blended into hers in the instant Marco was about to touch Marisa's cheek and she raised her hand to stroke his hair.
"I guess the separation was necessary, Mari. We matured in order for our bond to grow stronger. And today we're here with your mother's approval, can you believe it?"
"Broken mirrors reflect far more moons," she recited, evoking the poet once again.
They curled up on the sofa under a blanket and watched a thriller on cable TV. Outside, the temperature had dropped to fifteen degrees, and they snuggled close together. Marisa would never learn the identity of the serial killer spreading panic onscreen as she fell asleep in his arms. The film ended, he woke her and they went to bed. They slept cuddling, forgetting to turn off the oven...
The scene dispersed on the landscape of the marina at sunset. Seated at the bar, Marco contemplated the silhouettes of boats swaying against the backdrop of magenta rayed with gold. If such a thing as perfection existed, he thought, that night had been perfect.
It never happened again.
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Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Hmmm... Should I ask for votes and feedback in the comments? Virtually no one votes or comments, so it's a bit frustrating for me not to know where I'm standing... I'll keep asking, maybe you'll take pity on me :) xoxo