In my dream the hell was a hotel and I was visiting. In order to get out I needed a magnetic card. I don't know if I ever made it out as I woke up at four a.m. Had to sit on the verge of my bed, wide awake, for a couple of minutes.
Your rugged skin, your smooth skin, white skin, black skin embalmed with the softest, manliest perfume. As I put it later, over the phone, it was all hystory. A myth. A crush. We laught about it, one at each end of the conversation. I somehow admitted I could've rubbed against those skins. Against the well defined pecs. A matter of imagination. Left wanting.
How I miss airports. And shopping. Shopping at airports.
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