“Desculpa é só uma pergunta. Vocè acredita no Amor?”
I fell in love with the violin, with the cigarette smoke, and the vinho Porto that inebriated that place of enormous rocks; fortress that trapped my thought. Of the dim light that lit small pieces of paper, allowing letters to appear upon their surface. On the reverse of my bill, Martini 1,50 / Martini 1,50 / Martini. . .
With his fingers that played like big-bellied, crazed bees on top of frigid strings at dawn. With the yellow Portuguese Suave cigarette boxes on top of the blue fluorescent mantle piece. With a distant and solitary candle whose flare did not cease illuminating.
With the bent nape of his neck and of cheek that held the violin. Of the thin and wooden stick that hardened against strings that cried out their touch. With the fully erected cigarettes in between fingers in an air of complicity.
With his arm that embraced the violin that not once refrained from rising and falling on top of those volatile strings. With the crystal clear tubes of Martini. Enamored with a swig from a beer bottle, the serpentine shaped couch and the splendorous spider webs against the ceiling.
I fell in love with its sonorous honeyed cantata full of Beethoven and Mozart. In love with the stupor, with their lost gaze and endless claps. With his humble and silent adieu that grew with crescendo and fomented in the coração.
“Desculpa. Seus dedos são como abelhas porque produzem Mel.”
“Muito obrigado.”
Valentinos (Café Bar, Esplanda)
Porto, Portugal
I fell in love with the violin, with the cigarette smoke, and the vinho Porto that inebriated that place of enormous rocks; fortress that trapped my thought. Of the dim light that lit small pieces of paper, allowing letters to appear upon their surface. On the reverse of my bill, Martini 1,50 / Martini 1,50 / Martini. . .
With his fingers that played like big-bellied, crazed bees on top of frigid strings at dawn. With the yellow Portuguese Suave cigarette boxes on top of the blue fluorescent mantle piece. With a distant and solitary candle whose flare did not cease illuminating.
With the bent nape of his neck and of cheek that held the violin. Of the thin and wooden stick that hardened against strings that cried out their touch. With the fully erected cigarettes in between fingers in an air of complicity.
With his arm that embraced the violin that not once refrained from rising and falling on top of those volatile strings. With the crystal clear tubes of Martini. Enamored with a swig from a beer bottle, the serpentine shaped couch and the splendorous spider webs against the ceiling.
I fell in love with its sonorous honeyed cantata full of Beethoven and Mozart. In love with the stupor, with their lost gaze and endless claps. With his humble and silent adieu that grew with crescendo and fomented in the coração.
“Desculpa. Seus dedos são como abelhas porque produzem Mel.”
“Muito obrigado.”
Valentinos (Café Bar, Esplanda)
Porto, Portugal
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