unlike his attitude in social situations, where he had a sparkling personality and boyish, charming good looks, he was a timid and calm lover. his accent made him, in the bedroom, somewhat shy and concerned, and I really liked this singularity. between four walls he didn’t speak; instead, he whispered words of affection very close to my ear, in an almost inaudible tone, his voice was so hoarse and dreamlike that, in some moments, I would catch myself wondering if I had, in reality, heard or dreamt it.

sitting by the foot of the bed, in the rough, shabby carpet of our room, he clutched a bottle of booze by its neck – the knuckles pale – like it was a lifeline. he toyed with his hair, running his fingers through the locks franticly, fighting inner demons and strained desire. his mouth opened and closed for a few moments, until he spoke out loud. I had a little scare, for I was not expecting to hear, at any moment of the night, the angelic sound of his voice. amazed, I did not pay attention.

“I find it very hot, you know?”
“what?”, he said.
“the sound of your voice.”

his face showed no sign of emotion, but from this moment on, he spoke no more. he only dragged his body back to bed, crawling languidly under the covers. he grabbed my face, a gentle yet steady hand, and pulled me into a kiss. words or no longer necessary. throughout the night we bared skin and soul, mixed sweat with the sweet tangling of tongues. through the rest of the night, we spoke foreign languages, but were not lost in translation.

we didn’t speak the language of love. instead, we spoke in a language only we could understand: body language.


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