16 – “a boy left the letter”

He put the letter on the table.

“Sit down,” Giorgio said calmly.

I nodded, my throat dry.

"Are you thirsty? I only have water to offer."

My gaze wandered to his crotch for a moment.

“Gladly,” I answered – almost too quietly.

He turned around, went into the small kitchen, and took two glasses from the shelf.

I heard the rippling of the water – and the pounding of my heart.

Then his voice, casually:

"Strange. I was only in the house for a short time. The letter wasn't there before."

Short break.

“Did you see anyone put him down?”

I felt myself getting hot.

My lie was as thin as dust.

Too transparent. Too close.

I forced myself to calm down.

“Yes… a boy,” I said.

"A boy?"

He turned half towards me, the glass in his hand.

“Can you describe him?”

I took a breath.

“A young man… black hair, light clothing.”

I wasn't lying. I was describing myself.

“I only saw him briefly before he ran away around the corner.”

“So someone like you?” he asked.

“And he ran away?”

His gaze was now completely on me. Not hard, but alert.

He handed me the glass and sat down next to me.

And suddenly he was there.

So close.

So much.

I could smell the scent of his skin – warm, earthy, masculine.

His thighs next to mine, wider, firmer, more noticeable.

He sat barefoot. His feet rested flat on the floor.

Big. Strong. Natural.

I felt small next to him.

Slim. Transparent.

Like a shadow at his side.

“I wonder what this letter says?” he murmured, opened the paper, and handed it to me.

“Thank you for reading it to me.”

I took the paper in my hand.

It was shaking. Or was it me who was shaking?

The letter – from me.

With every line that smelled of him.

Every syllable a touch I didn't dare make.

And now I should say it to him out loud.

Loud.

Next to him.

While he sat there – barefoot, half-naked, quiet.

Like a god who didn't know anyone was worshipping him.

I felt my throat go dry.

How my voice refused, but my body wanted to.

It was too much. And yet just right.

Then – I started reading.

Slow.

With my voice.

My words.

For him.

For the man I never wanted to tell,

that they are from me.

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