Taking no prisoners. Including herself.

*     *     *

“Kissing is weird.”

Picasso absentmindedly plucked his thumbnail against his front tooth.

“I mean, just think about mouths. These gaping wet holes with banana slug inchings, strange muscles, flipping and flopping about –not to mention dental fences along the property line, and lip hedging that seal off an entrance. Extrañomuy extraño

His friend Paulo stopped strumming. The night air had cooled with some hours post-dusk, and the boys had pulled on sweatshirts.

“I’m serious, Paulo, ma’! Think of it: all the mouths you’ve known: the ones you’ve listened to, the ones you’ve watched, the ones that’ve let you inside. How you can taste some essence of each person you kiss, you know instantly their personality, like meeting them for the first and only needed time, as if you were tasting the color of their soul.”

Paulo now set down the guitar, pick and all, folded his hands dramatically across his chest, tilted his chin down ever-so-slightly to communicate a mockingly serious tone, and looked at Picasso through his eyelashes.

“Seriously, Pica? ‘Color of their soul’? Seriously?!” There was vacant space between them. “Ah, fuck, man — you’re serious. Color, of, their soul…” He paused, and took a drag of oxygen through the spliff of his lips. “Well… I suppose I never really thought about kissing like that. Or mouths. Or… you think too much, you know that?”

Picasso had dropped his attention. He was already galaxies beyond the conversation.

“It’s just that, you ever wanted to be so free you confined yourself?” He didn’t look at Paulo as he said this. Paulo looked worriedly at Picasso. Picasso abruptly snapped his neck to his friend.

“I keep having this dream. It’s constant. There is me. I’m standing in the middle of this field… in the middle of nowhere. There is a perfectly clear sky. I can see every star. The grass is wet, my shoes are off. I’m in Andalucia or someplace. I’m happy. Suddenly I look up and the stars start screaming — literally screaming. Little mouths of light open up in the center of each star, each constellation becomes a raging howl, and I can feel in my heart it is ME screaming, raging, full of hatred, pain, confusion… it’s something primal. Some primal kind of rage and sorrow. And then they fall out of the sky — the stars. They just drop like elevators and land all around me, in the grass, on my head, in the grass, on my head — one after the other, sharp as glass — and around me form a ring of bars. And then everything snaps in half — my body, the bars, the earth, my very vision. And I wake up the same way every time: my head repeating a throb, my mind repeating a mantra: ‘it’s over, it’s over, it’s over.’” He pauses. And pauses some more. “What does it mean?”

Paulo mirrored the double pause. “It means you think too much. It’s just a dream, Pico. Like flying dreams, or your teeth falling out, or showing up naked to school. Child stuff. Dreams.” He picked up the guitar again, and went to work knitting the strings with fingers skillful and warm.

Picasso picked up the beer bottle that Paula had just drained. He held it and rolled it back and forth between each hand. Then he threw the bottle hard against the wall behind both their heads. It smashed and broke and cackled with glass shards that twinkled down on their heads. Paulo ducked.
“See?” Picasso looked at Paulo softly. “See: it feels like that,” and laughed lightly, but with sadness. “It feels kind of like that.”

-(a pathetic: 2565 words)

§736 · November 11, 2009 · NaNoWriMo · · [Print]

1 Comment to “Picasso, The Story. Installment #3”

  1. alia beeton says:

    whoa. picasso is going through something major here, isn’t he? I want to mother him… that could be the hormones.

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