The last day of May. It’s been raining the whole morning. The air is crisp, only slightly chilly with the heavy moisture. The thriving greens are darkened by the clouded sky; grass, leaves, flowers, they all put on more mature airs, as if they’d already have the backing of the full strength of summer. Well, they’re almost right.
Birds fly low, crossing the streets at a mere one-foot or two from the ground. Don’t they know, can’t they see, these beautiful marvels, how we rush everywhere on our wheels, how big we are, and inconsiderate? I slow down, my heart jumping, ready to step madly on the brakes, every time I see a minute sparrow or a glossy merle darting from one shrub to the next, on the opposite side of the street.
A soft thud, that was the only sign, when the car I was in at the time hit a sparrow on the motorway. It was ten years ago, but I’ll never forget it.
Maybe as redemption, I have a little birdhouse in my back yard. My visitors are sparrows, merles, doves. I feed them seeds in winter, which they share with squirrels. This year, only one flat is occupied, by a family of merles. I can hear the chicks chirping frantically, while their parents continuously come home with juicy worms in their beaks. I haven’t seen them yet, but I like to imagine there are three of them.
The lilac’s twigs are bending almost to the raspberry thicket below, the weight of the lavish clusters of purple flowers tripled by dripping water. Still, they send their heavy hypnotic fragrance to the four corners of the world. Oh, I have a lush garden, just slightly out of control…
Daniel, today we’ll have the tea together, outside, under the porch roof. The rain will have stopped by then, and perhaps a bird musician will send his trills into the clear air.
We’ll sit next to each other. You’ll pour the tea into the white and gold porcelain cups, careful to hide your emotion behind those fragrant bergamot vapours, and those perfect manners, and that witty sparkle in your eyes.
But soon, you’ll lower your guard of self-assurance. Your smile will become softer, soon you’ll allow your cautious warmth to permeate your words, your gestures. Our hands will brush occasionally, ever so lightly, in our suddenly clumsy handling of cups, and saucers, and biscuits. We will laugh at this, and your turquoise eyes will sing a song with all the unspoken words of love.
Soon, you will reach out, as if to get something from the service table behind me, the sugar maybe, and, for a brief moment, your face will hide in my hair. Is it the lilac or the Bvlgari, you’ll ask yourself, longing to linger in there for a just a second more. But you’ll retreat. I shall not abide this. I will have felt your hot breath on my neck and, now that it’s gone, I will feel cold. I’ll turn my head, quickly, and you’ll be there. Your mouth, fierce, resolute. You’ll kiss me.
Oh, how you’ll kiss me, my darling.