The Lovers


By Petros Argruiou




It was solemn in there, the kind of gravity one dared not disturb, like something serious and unavoidable was happening every second of a second and the witnesses were lost in the spectacle, unable to utter a word, or change anything. It was a kind of continuous end of days. Everything that was to be done, already done, the final exhaustion.The witnesses had yellow pale and round faces, like a weak full moon; The gravity had transformed them into one collective speechless entity, a new breed of Godforsaken, a new cast of Untouchable. In the heart of their death temple someone dared laugh.

No not someone, there were two of them — a boy and a girl.

They had found the point of zero gravity in the room, and they were laughing with each other, laughing at each other, teasing each other.

The moonfaced people were looking at them with disdain, like a priest at mass or a teacher in a classroom would look at a rascal and try to subdue him with an austere glance. But they never said a word. They were too busy, too absorbed with their task of witnessing things fall into nothingness to make a sound. The people in the room were people no more. Everything they were they had already been, everything they could be, lost forever.

The two youngsters left the room laughing and holding hands, scandalizing the doom prophets even further. They left the kingdom of despair to those who worshiped her most, untouched by her, unmolested. They would return soon enough. Such was the ritual. They didn’t care. They were all too familiar with the moon-faced people, with the race of abandoned hope that was sucking everything like a selfish sponge bent on emptying the seas, like a black hole, an all devouring nothingness. But for all their pointless hunger, they couldn’t suck these two. They were unsuckable, undrainable, they were full. The moon-faced people were harmless to those two.

It was raining outside the grief room. They would walk hand in hand, dance with the raindrops.

The restaurant was a few steps away after all. A little rain wouldn’t possibly hurt them.

It was their meeting place, the restaurant. They found it together. It was nothing fancy, not that they could afford anything fancy. It was just a place people went to eat. For those two it was much more, a playground and a lovers nest. Love was never absent, never out of place, never out of order, never failing.

Meatballs and spaghetti and cheese, lots of cheese. That’s what they would have.

People were staring at them with disdain and “the kids nowadays” looks written all over their contemptuous faces. So inappropriate, so rude, so uncivil, shameless. The lovers didn’t care. The people in the suits and dresses were as harmless to them as the moon-faced people. They were used to people not approving of them, or staring at them. They had to get used to it when they were alone and confused and lost and they lost all their hair and the lives they had and were ashamed of it all. But then they found each other. Nothing else mattered. Well almost nothing. Because it was getting late and their parents would worry to death. They had to go now. They kissed each other goodnight saddened and unready for the parting but eager and happy for the reunion.

“See you tomorrow”
“Same place, same time”
“See you at the chemo then”
“And tell the Gamma Ray people to not make you angry”
“Cause when you get angry you turn green”
“I become Hulk”
“I become Hulk too”
“I love you”
“I Love you”
“Tomorrow then”

Little lying rascals! They didn’t hold their promise. They met even earlier, later that night in the boy’s room, secretly hiding from his parents, loathing the apartness, performing each other.

Their bald heads were glowing in the dark. Every day they were being irradiated with energies that killed cells, bodies, and souls but at night they radiated back the sacred energy of being, omniscient alchemists that were accidentally transforming death to life.

They were endlessly falling into each other, time and space abolished. Being was the only condition. They were so full, that they had to find every gap, every chasm, every uninhabited little vacuum to fill with themselves.

A lover’s love was killing off the killers. Winning was irrelevant. Longevity was but an old man’s moan.

Loving was all that mattered.

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