PAGE
371. DRY BEEHIVE
It
wasn’t night, but it was dark enough, permanent in spirit, as it ought to be
for endless stagnation. The bench where we used to sit down and do homework is
there, next to the cubic monolith that you didn’t want to call home, but was.
Was yours. The beehive was dilapidated then and your aunt lived there. Today is
in ruins and your aunt is dead. Abandoned. The neighborhood block is deserted.
Rusted antennas are still erect on the roof, like grave marks after the war.
Reveling in the past becomes a national pastime. Saltpeter hasn’t been kind to
the Aluminum doors of this former structure. Up the stairs, the door is open.
We sneak in. I decide to cook a meal in the old apartment. Sit at the old table
we once shared briefly. You say its masochism. I say it’s our childhood, a
fragment anyway. You agree although I remember it much better than you. You.
You are not even listening… Poor old me. Never kissed you then, never got the
chance, never will. But we will cook together here. I turn on the stove. Fish
on a frying pan. Black oil sparks jump on the dusty grayness of the wall.
Boiling water, you make rice. Outside the wind blows the eternal magic hour.
Done. We are sitting at the table. Food is served and we have a first bite. You
look around and smile. Tastes good. Debris falls on the table. Up. The ceiling
crumbles. Walls crack. Ground sinks. The structure gives up, ten floors of
concrete, crushing us. You were pretty. Long black hair and extremely thin
everywhere but your lips. I always thought they were vulgar and wondered what
it would be like to kiss you. They are semi open now. Beautiful and horrible,
your face is frozen in broken trauma. My vision fades to red and black blurs
inside my split skull. Crushed meat, and bones, our blood mixed with the
building, rice and fish. The rest of the building collapses to dust… I wake up.
Palpitations. Sit up. Where are you these days Trina? Innocence and
precociousness managed a harmonious coexistence in your laughter. Echoes over
your corpse, still fading on my dark walls. Who were you? I remember your smile, but not your
last name. A snail crawls towards my bed, leaving a wet trail on the thin layer
of ashes. It was a dream. But I know I’ll never see you again.
