The cold of late February turned in a second into the warmest day in August. Heat washed over his body as if he’d had three shots of rum. Nervous hands searched for a place in the air to hide, legs buckled and threatened to drop him. Sweat broke out on her forehead as in her most feverish days, and her heart beat faster at the sensation of suffocation that flooded her lungs.
While the body gave the alarm light, his mind collapsed from the collision of ideas, thoughts and unfinished phrases that could not be emitted. He thought of books, movies and similar experiences that had been related to him, he thought of dreams, of delusions, of emptiness.
How many times would he have wished to find himself in that situation, how long would he have waited for the elements to be arranged at random offering the possibility that was presented to him, how many dialogues would he have constructed with his imagination around moments like this, polishing the words with the hand of a cabinetmaker to obtain in all cases a happy ending.
But with the emotion of the live show, the irreversibility of the present and the touch of reality, his response scheme fell apart.
He wished he could spit out all the fears and failures that were outlined before his eyes, turn his head and say the magic word that opens hearts and chains souls, but he realized that he had no saliva left.
He closed his eyes, seeking the concentration that would allow him to compose himself, regain control of his limbs, gather the necessary courage and launch himself.
He opened them again and taking the breath that would expire into words, he looked around in bewilderment. She was gone.
‘It’s not warm when she’s away. Ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone ‘
Today my song is: ‘ Ain’t no sunshine ‘Bill Withers