Cap I:

He rushed in like a hurricane. He had this thing in his eyes. This thing always caught her; it was like magnetic-organic to her, some reaction in a subatomic level deep in her cells, some morphogenetic condition. It was instinct. Despite the violence in his walk, the thing in his eyes was brigther today. His right hand was severly hurted, bleeding. He had deffinatley punched someone. And savored the process with pure joy, she concluded.

_Let me help you with this.

_It is nothing.

_It’s nothig but my job to take care of it.

_I am fine. I told you, it is nothing.

_I’m not asking anymore. You are the bad cop, I got it. I’m not beeing nice with you, don’t need to get all allergic. Your hand is covered in blood and dirt, it will be infected in 3 hours and as far as I know, you are right handed. I am cleaning this.

She finnished the sentence grabbing his hand, the left one, and put the right one under water. It was ugly, really. ‘The other guy is probably a hamburger now’ she thought. If she knew him well enough, the first punch was in the middle of the chin, to disorientate the opponent. To make a statement. He wasn’t subtle when it comes to be about his job. He is sheriff, so people expects of him some…things, and posture. In addition, to keep his position, he should play his part. The truth is it was not some vulgar violent male-tale. He was bigger than that. He was classic. He act classically, and it worked well. So far so good.

Now she noticed that his left hand was hurted too. The knot fingers were pealed-off. So after the first punch – that was for sure a phenomenal thing to watch, brutal enough to make the poor thing/other guy past out for a few seconds, Neil lifted the guy up, probably by the jeans jacket he must be wearing. That should be burning like hell. Then came the forehead right in the nose, as the bleeding point in the middle of his eyebrows indicated. Nevertheless, his right hand, was really, really fucked up. Minced meat with bones, miraculously whole bones. Maybe four, five heavy jabs in the face of his opponent. He used to have this ridiculous micro-skull tattoo on his hand that certainly wouldn’t survive to the new scar. Nothing else was ridiculous about that man. It’s funny, he hadn’t the obvious beauty, hadn’t symmetry, wasn’t a beautiful warmth smile, perfect teeth or blue eyes. However, when the pieces were together, his constantly frown, the mid-long dark brown hair that blends with the honey brown beard in a sort of mane, the deep-shadowed eyes, lips that were indescribable and serious. A physical constitution of a soldier, a strong skilled soldier. He was actually a veteran, but they never trade a word about that. They barely spoke… they used words to each other carefully, because when the sound of his voice were heard, or hers, it was pure synesthesia. Listening to the sound of that voice initiated a chain of events in both bodies, hard to bare, almost impossible to stop.

Their relationship were based on this tacit agreement, it seemed. They looked each other several times a day, more with the intention of knowing that his/hers satellite was there. No exchanging glances. In their voiceless, wordless agreement, no cliché romance allowed. Neil was severe, in all aspects of his personality, at least that’s what she perceived of him. And she was an excellent observer, an essential part of her talent for read people, an essential part of their relationship. She used to be gorgeous, years back, when in the old Earth. Now she was too tired, with the soul too old, with too many problems to solve. Everything was there, resisting to the tough years, the beautiful black silk hair, the honey green eyes with small brown dots, those succulent tights, like ripe fruits, the strawberry lips, the freckles against the porcelain skin. But the years were cruel to everyone, hardened her character, and she eventually lost her exuberance. Well, not for him. He could admire her for hours, all of her movements were gracious. He loved to observe her muscles responding to her elegant and fierce walk, as if there were an inaudible song guiding her legs and hips. She was his everyday damnation, fuck. So impossible to deal with. Back in the days, when he hadn’t that much of weight on him, things would be different between them - he said that mentally every fucking time she appeared with that baby-blue dress. Or every time she was simply brilliant, which happened a lot. He began to feel in his bones he needed to fix things with Cali. Urgently. Fuck the Ragnarök. She finnished the first aids, her delicate hands made him feel nothing. The touching was unbearable. Was all about the eyes, between them. But things would change now.

(in progress)

Pensava na estupidez de escolher uma lingerie de renda maravilhosamente desconfortável, apenas para se despir e passar as próximas horas estática, reclamando mentalmente que seu retrato acabaria com as marcas da renda estampadas em seus quadris.

Pensava na estupidez de ter meticulosamente deliberado acerca da lingerie, da combinação de texturas entre a fina renda de seu soutien e a rudeza do linho cru de seu vestido.

Pensava na estupidez de se envolver em rituais para se apresentar a um homem que mal conhecia, cujo interesse se limitava na observação dos matizes das veias sob a sua pele, do jogo da luz e da sombra nos côncavos e convexos do seu corpo, na plasticidade da sua casca.


Enquanto catalogava cada decisão estúpida em seus arquivos cerebrais, chegou ao hall do prédio estéril que guardava o estúdio do pintor. No momento em que leu o anúncio, solicitando uma voluntária para posar por 4 horas, pareceu uma ótima ideia: eu vou ficar nua em um estúdio de pintura de um potencialmente interessante espécime masculino, o que pode dar errado, certo? Certo. Mas agora estava ali, com a calcinha meticulosamente escolhida. Renda. E o soutien também. Desperdiçar 3 horas de banho, óleos, perfume, carmim e lábios delineados? Não era uma opção minimamente viável. Perguntava-se por onde andava aquele tesão que sentia por experimentações vazias de significados filosóficos, aquele frio na barriga que intumescia os mamilos e arrepiava os pelos das coxas e enrubescia as bochechas. Perdida (invariavelmente) em seus devaneios, encontrou o que procurava quando a porta do estúdio se abriu. O tal pintor em nada se parecia com as fotos que havia visto. Na verdade,
agora as fotos que vira dele pareciam caricaturas de mal gosto. Alto, o suficiente para ter de elevar os olhos, mas sem que seu pescoço doesse. Magro, mas notava-se músculos vigorosos cobertos pela malha velha de uma camiseta do John Paul Jones. Olhos atentos, sagazes, despudoradamente sagazes, boca macia (ela se deteve por um segundo a mais em seus lábios -macios, ao que responderam com um sorriso-de-canto-de-boca pornográfico) contornada pela barba cheia e bem aparada. Somente agora reparava que por sobre os olhos sagazes vestia óculos, e neles via o reflexo de uma mulher altamente desejável, curvas generosas sem nenhum compromisso com a perfeição, um vestido de linho cru que dava aos observadores um vislumbre de renda a contornar um seio, umas ancas largas, uma cintura que convidava uma mão a um descanso. E a um passeio.

O pintor abriu um sorriso sincero, convidou-a a entrar, ofereceu um café, um baseado, um whisky. Ela aceitou os dois primeiros, respirou fundo de olhos fechados por milissegundos e pensou "sim". Passado o relaxamento subsequente ao THC agindo em seu sistema nervoso, sorriu. O pintor explicava calmamente como seriam as próximas horas, que ela poderia pausar a sessão sempre que necessário, que não havia pressa e seu tempo seria respeitado. Nada, nada de muito relevante além daquela voz de trovão rouco, baixa, grave, melodiosa. Aquela voz sim, merecia toda a atenção que seu cérebro pudesse dar. Ele ainda falava enquanto organizava seu cavalete e tintas. Ela notou suas mãos. Dedos compridos, duas tatuagens ininteligíveis, mãos enormes. Assinalou mentalmente que elas caberiam em sua cintura, e que seus seios caberiam nelas.
Ele disse qualquer coisa sobre as formas femininas e sua poesia, e lançou um olhar as suas pernas (agora cruzadas). Não era um olhar de fome, não era o olhar sacana que ele dirigira aos seus olhos. Não, era veneração. Era adoração pela forma, pela reação da pele à luz da manhã que banhava a sala do estúdio, refratada nos salpicos loiros dos seus pelinhos. Ela via a poesia da qual o pintor lhe falara. Via ali, naqueles olhos despudorados que agora a devoravam como uma boca faminta, poesia de carne e pele. Sentiu-se tomada de beleza e comoção. Seus cílios agora batiam como asas de uma borboleta preguiçosa, seu sangue pulsava quente, caudaloso, seu vestido se tornara um véu, o véu que embala em frisson a antecipação da visão. Ela lembrou-se de uma fala, em uma revista em quadrinhos: - he was savoring the meal to come. Percebeu que ele respirou para se recompor daquela epifania compartilhada, reuniu toda a gentileza cabida naquela voz de homem e perguntou aquilo que o momento passado já havia respondido: - você está pronta?