True Romance

Evil spirits tried to claim responsibility as I rolled through the night with Gabriella. Smiling in the darkness I repelled them easily. Because at least for the moment, this beautiful Latina and I were one. Silly evil spirits. Don’t they know they can’t operate in the presence of love? Arrogantly and erroneously, they assumed that because Gabriella was a young maiden practicing the old business of prostitution, she was automatically one of theirs, and I was culpable through participation. But this was no fly-by-night encounter, this was electricity running through two intelligent biological life forms. It was a connection born of laughter, tempered with tragedy, intensified by surprise. With my tattered blanket acting as a cloaking device, we connected as friends, therefore eliminating any reason for the messengers of Darkness to intrude. As we were not intentionally disturbing the priest.

There was no exchange of funds, nor obligation involved in this interlude. After the novellas were over and with the encouragement of the dropping mercury, we gave way to desire as the rain made a waterfall of the eaves outside my open window. All through the drizzly afternoon, and with absolute disregard for authority or tradition, we abused illegal drugs, creating a haze within which old rules and new laws have no jurisdiction. In a state of sexual bliss enhanced by dopamine and a cold spring storm, we consumed each other in a fever that transcended simple lust. I tickled her feet and she pinched me. Blood roared in my veins as our moves became slower, her lips on my neck, my hand making circles on the small of her back and pulling her closer and closer.

Though we had never been naked together, Gabriella had slept with me before. On those times when the streets became too unfriendly to confront, she could hide from them with me. She was welcome anytime, day or night, a privilege she used liberally, often crawling into my bed in the early morning hours, reeking of a thousand smokes, exhausted and wasted. Sometimes she came over in the day. She took me on a walk once, in the barrio where she lived when she was little. I liked her shortcuts thru the confusing maze of plain cement buildings and streets running at strange angles. I could imagine her, skipping to school in her pressed uniform, with that happy smile on her face. But I suppose it was different than that.

 

Sometimes she would clean my place up, carefully arranging things that needed no arrangement. Other days she would drop on the bed and sleep for two or three days, awaking only to eat, and brush her teeth. She was fanatical about that. Clever and pure of thought, she walked light in her shoes. Gabriella was a manifestation of my desire for strange acquaintances. I enjoy these rich moments, so far away from the hard line symmetry of my old life, in snapshots; the way her smile always started on the left side, her rank morning breath in contrast to her expressionless innocence. A tarnished angel, sound asleep. I retain clear images of the way she rubbed the inside of her right wrist with her left hand when she was nervous, or deep in thought.

 

As we found sensual harmony, we did so without previous plan or premise, we were friends. There is no greater trust than the one unspoken, nor any secret as exquisite as the feel of Gabriella in the in the chill of morning. I did not intend to introduce her to my mother, and she did not always know the whereabouts of hers. But in the surprising moment of spontaneous change from clothed to naked, the experience was intensified by the fact that none of the above mattered. It was, I suppose, inevitable.  Kindred spirits sometimes meet and transcend the obvious part of their existence. Flowers pay no tithes, instead, they dance with God. This wonderful and formidable person found security and rest with me, and I have the treasure of her various poems, drawings, and doodles beside mine on my walls. It is humbling to recall it. In an ugly cement two-room box, with no tile nor decoration, and the dregs of yesterday for furnishing, I have magnificent works of art.

One night we cooked rice in the microwave and ate it, without seasoning, in coffee mugs. Because she decided it would be good for us. I will always remember the clumpy, tasteless goop as a delicacy, seasoned with laughter. We were connected by humor from the first time she had visited. We both liked our humor dark, dry, hold the vulgar, a little on the unholy side. Looking around at my various projects and things, she asked why I had empty picture frames on the wall. I pointed and told her this one was my friends, and this one family. She dismissed this comment without the smallest expression on her face, paused a moment, and then asked why an American would live here instead of in a condo or something. It’s because I am poor, I replied, smiling and dignified. She asked why I didn’t work, and I proclaimed that I, indeed did work, and pointed to my PC with a Ha! for added affect.

She still looked doubtful, so I showed her a couple of my crappy poems in Castillano. These are pretty good she said. I know, I replied. In fact, I said, I will soon have more money  than the Cartel from the sale of my fantastic adventures.

Ha! She said, completely to my delight.

No, it’s true, I said, acting hurt. And when I am rich, I will buy you a nice helicopter, what color would you like?

Upon a few seconds reflection she decided on white. So she could fly around and everyone would think, ‘what a peculiar cloud!’. Later that day, we watched Sponge Bob in Spanish. I always do this at 4, it is really good for my lame sentence structure and shaky pronunciation.

Gabriella is a good cartoonist and writes poems that make me cry, but she is not motivated by anything but the therapy she derives from her art. She smokes joints and moves like a cloud around the bleak apartment, I like to watch her. Young and graceful, humming along with the radio. Her childlike innocence is at complete variance with her lifestyle, or occupation, as it were. You could take the walls off and save these works in a museum, but the art was only there for the times Gabriella drew and wrote them in clean sweeping lines and flowing words in beautiful cursive. As she reached high to place a star above the owl, I viewed a masterpiece that can only be seen after paying a price most wealthy men could not afford as no monetary figure could be placed upon it.

Some of you may know of what I speak.

 We would not think of tainting our friendship by discussing it among anyone. We were lucky to have met and connected in all the ways we did. There is no shame or regret in any aspect of our friendship. We live in a fucked up world that holds little hope of a bright future for either of us, and we know it. We would not be married and have kids in a different time and place, nor would I, at my age, publicly court a girl who could pass for my daughter. I left Colonia Mirador one day, and there was no need for tearful goodbyes or, empty promises, we knew all along our history would not be of any length. She gave me her string bracelet with the little plastic hearts on it, and I gave her my best box of color pencils. Her black leather belt, with the silver concha all around, circled her faded 501’s. With a sting I put to memory the way those two colors compliment the bare skin of her midriff.

I love Gabriella in the same way I love my favorite books.

I read them only once, and their spirit and fragrance stay with me always.

Author's Note

No federal laws were broken in the production of this tale. Gabriella is now 28, she was 23 at the time of this story.

Reviews

[Crowley]

This was some great writing my friend...I can find not fault with the writing or the subject matter, both divine, crisp and refreshing. I fell in love with this girl and the relationship in the matter of a thousand words, so I think you did your job for sure. Great work.

[Manyfacets]

What a treat this is Tony...Thanks for alerting me to it. I particularly like the way you crafted this one. It ia sensual without vulgarity, humorous without cliché. I loved your work from the first time I read your craft. Your other reviews have pretty much covered all the aspects of how great your work is. So, enough said. Ha! Smiles and happy days of writing to you. Brenda

[Eagle Cruagh]

Tony.
Congratulations ! This writing is a work of art.
Your talent a gift, your memory selective.

I envy the liberty to love with no tomorrow.

I have known many Gabriella`s, enjoyed them all,
respected them totally, but I have never slept with
one of them. I had that choice .

The selection of your friend is a selection that has
been made in some of the greatest books .

You write of a magnificent adventure into the human
heart and you have done it with style , compassion and humor.

Thank you for sharing ,

----- Eagle Cruagh

[cest la vie]

I only come out of the word-work for special people..
You my friend have done a number with these words.. From the first time I read your work, honesty reached up and slapped me upside my head. I have to tell people," Yes, every damn word is true". and they way you relate that to the reader.. well, it's like we pulled up a barstool, poured a cool one and you are regaling us with your life..

really good work here Tbo..

[Ed Hart]

oh boy, oh boy

[jenniewren (J.W. Bouwma..]

ohhh oh man. those last two lines.. they're profound in how, honestly, even on their own, without that gorgeous memory painting you gave us.. on their own they stand as a solid piece of poetry.. wonderful, wonderful!

[Raef C. Boylan]

Tony, this is beautiful, both in sentiment and quality of writing.
The language you use is really well-crafted; this story is emotionally charged and made even more so by the keen sense of distance you place upon your narrative. I feel I am almost tainting it by having read and reviewed, but know with relief that I cannot because something like this can't be wrecked by another's far-off appreciation. Thank you for sharing this experience and for being such a great writer. Also, thanks for your reviews the other day.