A Wong Kar-Wai Moment
In an opulent room, extravagantly done, very dimly lit, infused with hues of crimson and blood red, you were standing close, you leaned forward and whispered something in my ear.
Something about desire.
I laughed, throwing my head backwards, being demure, I tried to evade answering your question, while you laughed a shrill laugh and moved in a little closer, too close I could smell the faded scent of your expensive perfume.
In our little Manhattan, standing in front of you, you in a dandyesque attire, understated here, overstated there, never giving too much and revealing just the right amount of bourgeois air: I look at your face, searching - for its always the face, no? - for that glimpse of acknowledgment.
This primary site of recognition - the face.
But I looked and looked and all there was, was the shrill laugh and a lot of forgetfulness.
Dans le Caire de la Belle Epoque, et dans un batiment typical of that era, with Carnelian red gates and partially renovated staircase, that has patches of cement covering its walls at odd patterns and amorphous shapes, with melancholic neon light only amplifying the grey tones of the cement and the dreariness of the rundown atmosphere - in a room freshly painted I stood opposite you and once again I pretended that my perception of you is a seamless thing, not punctured by Time or distance or subject to reality or reason.
And we laughed again, mine a semblance of a laugh and yours the shrill, hearty laugh and you held my hand a little longer than necessary and I pretended that this is where it always belonged.
And when I had to leave and walk down that staircase once more, before reaching the final steps down, I stared at the patches of cement for a moment. A moment that felt so long to me. And so full.
I could feel the wooden banister, the marble steps and the eerie light of the neon lamps, that cast a sickly lunar quality, the beautiful gates and overwhelming nostalgia permeating the entire scene that would make Wong Kar-wai and Christopher Doyle relish it in ecstatic agony - was the perfect setting for a fleeting moment of delusional amorousness and a long moment of departure. And of forgetfulness.