Prose : The Blues

 There is no shortage of blue eyes in Berlin. To which I seem to have grown color blind. He spoke English like an Englishman though he said he was born in America but has not been American in a very long time. His eyes were blue – dark, rich, impossibly blue – blue like me.

He sat on my lap a sweet confection. A proud product of his kitchen, he proclaimed. It was made with lemons but was not bitter – bitter like me. The first bite was like learning to ride a bike all over again; I could not remember the last time I had eaten.

He told me his story that was filled with fable and metaphor and analogy, as his bright blue eyes became watery like the oceans of my past homeland as my mouth secreted saliva that was not only mine, it was also the spit from the man who brought me to this place, but that is a tale for another time.

I devoured the sweetness of the cake and the sweetness of concern from this sweet man with two cobalt blues as I noticed the shiny silver band on his right hand, now privy to the tradition of matrimony here in this loveless town: the promise starts on the left ring finger, then transfers to the right during the ceremony where vows are spat out in the hopes of everlasting. He was one of the lucky ones, and I was one in a million. He had been captured in the fishing net of love and I was still solemnly treading water with all of the other fish in the sea. We resisted the urge to swim in the tears that were now forming in our lower lids. A necessary joke was made to combat the attack of emotions long hidden from view.

The sky was unfettered by the whiteness of clouds, only the blue sky remained – blue like the sweet man’s eyes, blue like me. I was at rock bottom on the top floor of this building that I walked by over a thousand times but I never looked up into its safe harbor windows, anchored down by the unsure shore of the undertow of love.

I skimmed the building tops with my burden laden eyes and I caught the sight of a pinwheel. It was like me. It was vast and multifaceted in its appearance, with almost every color of the color wheel. It reminded me of my life, the way it battled and cooperated with the wind. A slow start, round and round in a reluctant and almost steady motion, then gaining speed in the most ferocious way then coming to a complete stop then reversing its motion in a sharp change of direction then returning back to starting all over again. The ebb and flow of the air was ruling the destiny of this beautiful object, moving but always in the same place. It was my story, my fable, my metaphor, my analogy.

The cake was like me too. It bared soft sweetness and a moist façade and when I got to the end there was a crunchy hardness that surprised me in some sort of way. The closer the plate got to being empty, the more I didn’t want it to end. It had titillated me for quite some time now and thinking of it being over, actually ending, prompted me to want to ask the married blue eyed emotional man for another piece, but I had already overstayed my welcome and he had already went beyond the call of duty. And then the cake was finished.

I don’t know why his eyes were more blue than any I’ve ever seen in this city. Perhaps this place has stricken me with the most abominable case of myopia. Out of all the far fetched connections of no return with these crystal eyed gentlemen that are a dime a dozen, this was the first to get so close to me, and allowed me to see himself so clearly. 


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