A Labeled Viking Longboat

Passion is a beast that is easily controlled, if only for pride, no feeling.

With the passion you play, the pat in the queue at the lights when you have fun and smile inside to fix the machines where an attractive girl accepts and returns the challenge of your eyes. Both happy that everything will fade after a few seconds, when the red of passion will fade in the green traffic light. Perhaps the chase, playing more with yourself, and she seems to accept until an (im) provident driver will stand in the way and we'll reopen the doors of your universe. Undermines the sense you: like a wind, rising to become gentle storm falls upon you just as happy to go and meet you down and pretentious like a glove. Because it relies on your pride.

happened to you: just when you thought it could never happen: you're in love with another woman. But it's not a question of meat, those who enter the eyes, and ardor, grease, slide down over between the stomach and legs to stop shaking. No, this will not stop the heart, such as the white feather in Forrest Gump, and it is not wanted to leave on. He stands there, almost hidden, so, with eyes wide against you, amazed and dreamy, like a child's cold and you can repair itself upon concerned only whether you want to drive away in the heart of winter. And how do you send him away, in the cold? In the storm? How easy to create alibis when you do not want to face reality?

What will you do? You look lost on him and can not find a solution. There is only one solution: it is precisely that which exclude from the outset. Why do you think you have the courage.

E 'success case: how could he otherwise?

You did not expect: so you imbolsito in your security in your snooty sure not to make mistakes, let alone to pave the way for weaknesses that nestling in your life could call into question the morality of the castle you've built around. Yet it happened: a grain of sand into gear, a concession to vanity, or perhaps just neglect, and the wind found the crack through which creep. Like a snake in the cracks of the wall. A joke

dropped perhaps more troublesome to fill a vacuum in order to communicate important news "next week in Florence work ". "Then the dinner invitation." A shiver. You let things fall, but these were left standing. You had the impression that she insisted and a first smile than usual, not so serene, but close to victory, your lips slightly bent. Do not you have done to get you back. Why? For vanity? For the desire to feel wanted, you, right now you feel your body gently discard not under the blows of an age that beat it, you can not think of this when the forty years are still a distant frontier, but for the light tapping labor, as well as those activities that you feel your way, you work the abdomen and the lungs, depositing the first one to escape the latter. You want then? For what? For whom? What was that? What made you lower your guard that you are so proud? Perhaps a greater pride? The demand to rebuild? To be important for someone else, rather, let's face clearly, for another woman?

is yes, I realize that taking action, almost imperceptible, the predecessor to the annoyance of your smile, a hint of irony tolerant, how to ward-who: with me? From you? - Suspicion. Vanity knows how to choose roads inaccessible and difficult to pierce the soul and feelings emerge cloaked in innocuous: it is from that spot forever imprinted deep in the interior, which drives you, like every other man, looking statement. Moreover the statement. A continuous, unstoppable journey that always needs new consensus, because that is not enough renewed. That 's what I thought I saw? Hunting? Trivial! Precisely because of this desire! Being a new god for someone?

Of course, since then something has changed. You waited for the day of departure with the same anxiety with which a child waiting for Christmas morning. In the car were playing with the radio. Without autogrill, the crumbs of the sandwich still on the beard, the breath disturbed by the smell of smoke that flooded the room, you had a hesitation. Did you stop with the phone in hand, the number already made up on the display, the finger ready to press the button. What did you see? Whatever it was, was not stronger than your agitation. You have pressed, the call has gone, she said. A little 'cold to be honest, almost detached. You had the impression that they had repented of what I had said just days before. Were you afraid, not so much that he lost something that had not yet, because you have wasted your safety in a dream that had no roots. You're worried more for your pride for your peace of mind. Did you watch on your drag and derided vanity thrown in middle of the square, humiliated, mocked. Were you afraid.

His voice is rectified, smoothed, maybe it was just your same voltage, the effort of building a time unsuitable. You have combined for the next night. Another day of waiting. It 'been there, you start to create you an excuse to trick you with innocence and simplicity of a dinner with a client, a claim also denied. Inverse sign of anxiety you have then attacked forcing you to sit. A thought that pounding has begun to fight you have even taken away the desire to eat. You went to the yarn in your hotel room and you've thrown on the bed, the television on, pretending to browse books and working notes, as if to prepare for the next day. The evening, which fell with a crash. A hand shakes his hair. The other, which closes the door of the room. The sky Strina color: burns and bleeds at the same time. Like you. A light wind carries away your honor. It takes so little: you'd have thought?

You took the car, turned on the radio before you even start, and everything has changed speed. The road has flown away to the parking lot where you would have encountered. The music is more galley of the books I do not know if I deliberately chose the voice of Michael Pfeiffer, or if it was all a coincidence, but while he waits, sitting in the car, even frightened, looking at every car that I was joined to recognize her, that My Funny Valentine has confused you even more ideas to the point that you have come to rely on and leave them by heart, which often does not know where it goes. Finally she has arrived.

smiles. There she dates. Stay away. Hop on his car. Begin to speak slow, detached and professional. You do not know what you want. Even she probably. Arrived. Parking. Two steps. The restaurant. Order. Talk about events on the margins, then narrows the circle: your life, life, memories, past, present. The voice has changed its tune. Outputs. It 's still early. It takes two steps to the streets of downtown. The temperature is soft. She'll walk around, you would almost want to take her arm. Hold on. Would she were to do so. He does not. Do you mind. Laugh. Takes you back to the car. Had first announced a gift, nothing personal, just a book which he had already spoken and that is somehow related to its past events. From him. Salute you. She leans over and kisses on both cheeks. "We'll see?" You ask. "If she likes," outlines how to defend yourself and add, "I'll be here again in a fortnight, if it so wishes and is free to call me." "Without a doubt," and instead answered the question already beginning to bite.

E 'already over. Yet that moment in the dark, illuminated by the sign of cutting of the hotel, while you stay close, we left a deep wound. Like in the movies you wanted to stop his movement. Plan too lean forward and gently kiss her. Frozen moment when the eyes watching, questioning and seeing each other in anguish and desire, but again not feeling strong, sensual, when an infinite tenderness. Here, that moment that can only happen once between a man and a woman, because then everything will be different, regardless of the direction that the story will take. That 's what desires? Living a scene that you were stolen in the past? Being the star of a new romance? I do not even know you: you are fascinated by the sequence of frames. And tell me: what would happen next? Do not you admit that you can think of. Love today is the retail market and you do not want to buy. The sweetness is more cruel mistress of the cowardly passion: it lets go when the shake in the morning, the first does not bite either, slipping inside. You were not ever happened. Turn it on, is the kind that shakes you boast and to silence, to be able to turn his eyes, sometimes with a second delay, so that the image you left him, not for long though. But now lead role in the Tuscan night, rises along the highway slopes and raw buckets and return to the hotel. Listening to music that haunts: the choice you have this time. The same voice that still sings the same Michelle Pfiffer My funny Valentine: the same yearning, not fact: different. Deep red and noisy. And you do not know how to turn off the melody so you can not cut a story that is not that warm yet dawn as if it were noon. The guilt you soaks in, trying to drown the sprouts with a cold river of excuses. In fact such things as a child that the meeting be repeated, that this little love grow. Sleep surprises you like a thief, more pity for her than for your choice. But you can still choose now?