By Patrick Brock.
Perfect Love
Love of kindness
Love of fire
Blast of sex
Creed and pain
Lover for a moment
Then faded
Unfortunate myth
Lives with the publicity
Which offers more
In a advertising of margarine
Who wants love?
Who wants suffer
Because love
Is accommodated
When in fact
We’re looking for someone just like us
Pure interest
This is the feeling
“So young and deceived,
Maybe for not love enough”
After a hard day’s work, he got to his house. The salesman of a company of orthodontic equipment, he would spend the days going through doctor’s offices which were always the same: reception, magazines, patients, mislead the receptionist’s selection to, finally, display his products. Claims his boss, “was the cheaper and better products brought in from another country”, when he knew that it was all made in Botucatu. If he had accomplished the daily amount of sales to get an acceptable commission, he could go home earlier. All the way he’d reveal an expression of complete happiness which he repeated every single day, and no one would understand why: the conductor of the bus he’d take every day, always the same one, the baker who’d sell him four pieces of bread every single day for the past six years now, the porter of the small building where he lived. Calmly closing the door, he looked to the clock and noticed that it was five to six. ‘Perfect,’, he thought. Plain flat, bedroom and living room, which had little furniture, in fact, only a black and white television which would only show light grey shades, a table and a sofa. No pictures on the walls, d écor or any other sort of adornment. He went from the living room to the bedroom with a serene pace, closing the door behind him. A single bed, a dark brown bed side table with a missing drawer on its right side a light portable bed and on the left a new and polished cabinet made of mahogany, the smell of fresh varnish, which he’d apply then and again. He opened the cabinet: Inside it there’s a beautiful image of Holy Mary in natural size, placed by the side of a black portable radio. He turned on the device and the sound of a popular song filling the atmosphere, cavaquinho resonating on the walls, vibrating less in a way that the atabaques and the surdo would keep the rhythm similar to the march of 297 soldiers. He checked again to the clock, and then to the white walls and the infiltrated and mouldy ceiling, a threatening green stain spreading itself for almost all the ceiling. It was 6pm. Without any warning the music starts: “AVE MARIA”, sang the Italian interpreter. He unfastens his serge black trousers and holds firmly the hard and hot sex. The image of the saint looking so beautiful and merciful transfigurated her look, and he thought how much he loved her while stroking the sculpture’s merciful face, ‘Ah I love you so much,’ he’d say in loud voice, his climax getting closer until he comes with a scream of happiness to then kiss the image of his adored saint with the reverence and fascination typical of the deepest love that one can ever imagine.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Patrick Brock is the author of the collections Velhas fezes (Edições K, 2004) and Textorama (Edições K, 2004).
