At their school she had a poor reputation: a girl who “went” with men, and of course, he could not care less, what he felt was her kindness, the softness of her lips, the smile he wanted to drown into…
Later, much later, he looked for her, without realising it, he was now a writer, and this masterpiece needed a hero – so he reinvented her, and, kindly, she reappeared, transformed, the lover of his youth.
Like Pygmalion, he fell again for her, and this time, she would not let go.
At first he was surprised, charmed, expecting, and called her by the name he remembered, the name of their childhood.
And now he was enslaved, fallen back in time, the prisoner of his beloved ghost.
The familiar objects on the desk reflect the feeble light of autumn: the shiny keyboard, the Pelikan pen, the notebooks, some photos of the past summer, and your portrait.
You are smiling, of the smile of a perfect avatar, as if this was the best that could be achieved, still, after so many pages, but not yet your entire self.
In silence I hope you will show yourself, your beloved face, those eyes where I wish to drown myself: the house is so quiet, and I cannot ignore those who have preceded you, the lineage of beauty…
Already I am typing these words, a timid effort at seduction, the slow approach of a shy pygmalion.
I feel the light air shimmer, the suspension of time in this room, I recognise your scent, petrified, I look in the direction of your chair: you have come, my only, my so-beautiful and so loyal character – and at this moment how I love you…
We met by chance, one of those city encounters, that usually lead nowhere.
But it was your dress, the colour matching your smile, the shape of you, suddenly more visible than if you had been naked: I looked at you as a photographer, then as a poet, then – yes of course – as a male who wanted you, who wanted to know and own that beautiful picture of a woman.
But no-one is to own you, for you are free and want to stay that way, you are no object, your beauty is for itself, and if you play, it’s on your terms, dress and all: there is no Pygmalion on your horizon, just you, and, cohorts of people like me – if only I had known.
So we walked, chatting, a close time capsule, oblivious of the crowd, of the trees, of time slipping, your voice as smooth as honey, the colour of your dress still holding me, transfixed.
“So”, you said with a bright scarlet smile, “are you sure you want to know who you have met, Doctor Faust? Then I will show you the other side of me”…