The death’s eye color


 I saw him somewhere on the Internet. I guess it was on the face book. Somebody was in rush and wanted to show me something else, probably the best way to cook pizza or how to serve Bacardi, someone who was too excited to stay for a while, smell the silence and look at him laid down in a tub, naked.


 Although his muscles were tense but his closed eyes profile invited me to a walk in a misty land.  He leaned against the tub’s wall, wanting to stretch out, to extend beyond death challenging small firm enamel tub.


 He had flexed his left leg. How about his right leg…. I do not really remember. Someone’s hand moved quickly fighting with mine trying to take the mouse to get back to him. “Here how to warm up a leftover pizza.” I managed to go back to the scene where he was in his masculine quintessential figure, floating in no time and nowhere.


 Someone fought and took the mousse back right after. Oh, again Right leg, I do not remember. But I know that he lowered his left leg over the right one to cover his penis.


 He was insensible to his stitched chest and a few drops of blood running on his abdomen as if it was part of a play that was not supposed to be finished before he would decide to leave the scene.


 How helpless he was. How lonely in that strange land trampled under the thousand sybaritic eyes who were hungry for a leftover slice of pizza.


 I fondled his stitches and licked 2 drop of bloods running from his abdomen. We caressed each other. He embraced me straitening his left leg, opening his questioning eyes wondering if I enjoyed. I raised my glass of Bacardi and said cheers. He plunged back into his deep sleep.


 Why I do not remember his eyes’ color.


Hengameh Kasraee


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