An Union


He put the percolator on the small fire, then poured three fingers of milk in the saucepan and set it on the fire nearby. If only the kitchen was bigger, a better equipped hob wouldn’t have been a bad thing and some more small fires wouldn’t have been either; perhaps with better equipment he wouldn’t have burned the milk anymore. Truth was, anyway, if he had given up the bad habit of doing other things while cooking and had spent a bit more attention to the fires, then those that were already there would have been enough. He realized his kitchen was looking pretty much like his mother’s. How come he did furnish it just like that!

He felt like laughing: he was nervous and the melancholy vein that had never left him, as far as he could tell, was passing through his whole being. That subtle feeling that everything could fall apart at any moment, it really was a reliable certainty in his life to the point that he was kind of attached to it. He melted in a half-laugh that almost sent the water down the wrong pipe. “Please don’t die right now” he told himself.
That day, at the same time, he felt deeply touched and warmed by a stomach heat that on one hand he knew quite well, tied hand-in-glove as it was to the thought of a very specific person, and on the other hand parts of it were voicing a completely new body, namely an inner talk that was whispering completely unheard things: the first was that despite anything could go wrong, it would be just alright. And the second was that he was about to leave and sail to other worlds, distant and beautiful ones, but he was not going alone. Maybe peace and optimism were there because he had dreamed the whole thing overnight, from beginning to end, like an astral rehearsal and a long, detailed medium premonition; now he just had to live it as he already knew, and indeed he felt like he could guide everybody with utmost confidence. He would have been the seraphic and motionless leader at the center of the stage, an emotional chaos in which they all would have freaked out, including her perhaps, and the idea was entertaining him so much already!

She was going to be so fascinating, he thought, and smiled in front of the television, which he was not looking at at all. He wondered what she was doing at that time and felt the slight ache of her absence.

That morning was the same as the morning before that one, and as the one even before. Same rituals, same single’s carelessness: the makeshift pajamas, the randomly prepared breakfast while sleeping standing, shuffling around with a wild beard and watery eyes. Or at least with the feeling of being in that very guise, a tenderly wretched one perhaps, except he had been an adult for several years. He laughed again. He was still himself and liked that, and she liked that as well. Most of all, they were both absolutely sure they would not change in the slightest: each one and self, deeply and forever a shuffling nursling single but together a new and singular entity, more than the sum of the parts. An odd funny mixture, certainly out-of-ordinary and a bit insane too, at least according to any given fixed norm.
– You don’t get away, you don’t get away… – he sang, the headphones on. – My siren, what would I be without you and your daily company! –
That morning, thanks to that benevolent wellness mixed with bright panic, he decided he would just keep an eye on the milk rather than multitasking with gym, writing, updating the smartphone, putting TODO notes around, thinking about amazing breakthroughs, studying and heaven knows what else.

– Purest immaculate white, oh charming Dutch cutie! – he mumbled triumphantly towards the TV with a broad, idiotic smile on his face and a handful of chewed biscuits in his mouth while the news were flowing in sync with the music. Blonde as she was she would have been just beautiful. Maybe she really had some ancestor from that country. In that very moment he got a text from his sister: “How are things? She’s here already…” He left the cappuccino-maker around and started replying with just one hand while still holding the pot in the other one. He had never figured out how to do that properly, so it took ages for him to reply. “Oh yeah? Then I’ll have to come!”. A sudden enlightenment came to his mind while pressing the “Send” button: she resembled Kirsten Dunst, definitely! How come he had never thought about that before! “I’m marrying Kirsten Dunst, how Cool is that!” he told himself while swinging his head in a complacency blaze.

It was half past ten already and he couldn’t figure out how possibly he could’ve forgotten. The day before he had gone to the workplace and had told nothing about it at all; most probably a handful of friends and colleagues would be present, if any: just the ones that his or her family piously had called. The rest of the not-so-massive crowd would have figured out while being told the reason for his absence or after noticing his ring later on. Actually, even though everything was about to change, nothing would have changed. They were just taking some vacations: they wanted to do it and they were happy about it but that was not about to change them at all. It works just like this when you are at peace with someone else, just a little bit more beautiful and valued than you (but that could be just because you’re in love), as much as you are with yourself. “That could really have happened to anyone then”, he thought. He would have bet his own head on it just a few months before: it was never going to happen.

Upstairs he had just seen with his own eyes the failed sabotage plotted by the ambassador of the spatted out, which was quickly put to silence by him and others after a long shadowing. They had been part of a common mission, unknowingly, as the sun was rising over the desert; somehow they had given birth to a single inner voice, who knows how and why.
Now the way was clear for everybody, so they were going to sail. His father was there as well, kind and good-looking, and that trip was really a gift from him. He couldn’t tell when they had found peace with each other but apparently it had happened somehow.

He was not comfortable about posing for his solo picture in the garden, as usual with prepared shots, but he couldn’t care less because soon they were going to leave, and they would have done so together.
He had climbed the stairs first, acting as a guide to her; he was well aware that she was experiencing the same duality of emotions. Just after the last step they found themselves in their own common house, at night, while outside the moon was shining bright and the faint lights of the solar torches were fireflies sitting in meditation in front of the body of water. The window was open and the white tent was waving, owned by the enjoyable summer breeze like a young girl performing a tarantella. He took her hand and they went admiring the stars, their next stop. She was similar to a spirit, snowy in that white night glow; he could have given a name to that feeling of his own for once, and tell her that name too; but that lucid desire was filling his mind together with an equally lucid awareness that he had never done it because of respect. For himself, for her, for them and for every moment they had lived together unblemished, just as it was and without any labels. – What do you think, let’s go? – he asked and – Let’s go. – she replied promptly, getting closer to the window and leaning towards the immense moonlight-dressed dark mass.

He took a deep breath and got the phone. It was just a few minutes before three o’clock and yet he felt like he had slept for days: he was not even the same guy as before. “It would be nice to remember these very feelings with this intact freshness” he thought, although he knew that would have been a paradox.
“You don’t get away, you don’t get away” he whispered with a faint, hoarse voice; then he turned off the screen light and closed his eyes again.

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