Invited artist: Gonçalo Almeida | Doublebass solo @ Soliloquios
Words: Margarida Azevedo
No - in a two-stroke break.
Yes - in a four-beat compass.
No - in a semibreve.
Yes - already in semiquaver.
No. Yes - in a restless pause.
It was in this indecision that she found herself. In a recurring uncertainty. In a hung and choked desire to feel a little more of that vibrato inside her.
In the heat of the moment, in the irrational will of wanting.
Want more. A lot more. And if there was a time when she knew that wanting is not power, that was the moment.
Nothing predicted the outcome. There was nothing to predict that one day he might regret it.
She spoke rhythmically and calmly to his ear.
He approached his world and whispered short, meaningless words.
Today.
Maybe tomorrow.
Maybe tomorrow the whispers echoed between her mouth and his chest.
The thick voice called for an aggressive dialogue. The sweet, honeyed voice made her feel she could have the world at her feet.
The cars passed among the accumulated silence of the unsaid phrases.
Quickly their eyes met and the desire to perceive his world made her lose track of her own.
Two in the morning. Yes it is. The whispers echoed between her mouth and his chest.
Three in the morning and his deep voice resonated between her breasts.
Nothing to predict.
Absolutely nothing.
Dawn was coming to an end and morning came. Between black silk sheets and cigarette butts in the ashtray the breaths seemed suddenly calm. The windows, where condensation dripped, remained closed and the cars stopped passing.
Hours before his hands ran over her white skin.
Hands marked by sound, subtlety and firmness. They ran through her skin, millimeter by millimeter.
Between light and sensual touches and a consented and exacerbated aggressiveness. Nothing to predict.
As she nestled in his arms, her breath caught briefly. Suspended in an oscillation between breathless and deep.
He used his bass tone to keep his emotional distance at every minute. She used her sweet voice to keep herself wrapped in his body.
He knew. She didn´t.
In fact, he always knew.
As rude as it could be she would always, but always, be there. Lying, available, delivered to the dream and the moment.
She never knew. She never considered that his deep and delicious voice might one day disappear.
The moments were more intense, longer, closer, less felt, less passionate, less melodious.
But there was nothing to predict.
On that warm August night, bare feet announced the distance and uncertainty.
The fast pace of those who do not want to be but do not want to run away.
The sweaty, powerful hands.
A little moan at the climax of pleasure. Brief moments of uncertainty as she is in a dizzying spiral of passion and attraction drifted to the moment when nothing else could happen. She stopped listening and just focused on her own body in a selfish act that aims to reach the podium without looking back.
In an uncoordinated physical act, in which small spasms frantically moved her legs. They danced. Both. He fixed on her chest, a falling smile on her face.
Nothing to predict.
On that warm August night he had dreamed that she was there as always waiting for him.
Sat down.
Waited.
And he saw her disappear into the memories of a slight lost breath.
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