Mum comes home twice a week by Toni Castillo Girona (classic book list txt) 📖

where even during the summer nights an additional blanket was truly required in order to avoid some chills. Memories, remembrances of that lovely past even when she got hurt, during that unforgettable and unforgivable episode, when she was excessively young and naïve and did not understand a clue about men. She felt in love, obvious thing to do when one is young and beauty, splendid, an actual blossom during the spring. Thus, her mother observed her from the distance only a mother could cope with; when she got home at night, she was questioned every now and again about what kind of suitor he was, what things they used to do together, if he was touching her down there

, and if so, if she was feeling something new and dirty. But she said no all the times, trying to put her mother's thoughts and worries at rest, and so her mum was tranquil for a while, at least during the few hours preceding the next date. It was painful when it came, all of a sudden: she came home crying miserably, all her make-up fucked up, buring her face inside the back of her two hands, making breathless noises and hurrying upstairs, until she reached her bedroom and there she stood, slaming the door behind her, hurling herself upon the bed. Her mum was downstairs, looking up and letting her anger flaring, unstoppable. “He dared!”, she shouted, angrily, “He dared!”.

It came to happen that that suitor was trying to demonstrate he was not queer. Clever but always alone, all the gossip was involved in his hypothetical homosexuality. Therefore, he got a girlfriend and was sure of showing up himself all the time attached to her, kissing her smooth and red innocent lips in public, holding her tight and smiling enamoured at her. She met his parents, his most important and beloved friends and relatives, and she spent some time dinning at their tables and small flats, having chats and talking about the most diverse subjects. She felt she belonged, at last, there

. His flat was small, indeed, but full of books. Here, there and everywhere she could find tall shelves containing a huge impressive collection of books talking philosophy and philology. Among others, she found Plato's The Republic

, the complete works of Heideger

in German, obviously, and A La Reserche du Temps

, written by Proust

, in such a colourful French. She was impressed, and so she came to love him deeply

. Thus, she felt betrayed and miserable when the awful truth came forth: it was there, in that same small place, that in killing some time, she said to him she would be proud of introducing him to her marvellous and beloved mother, and maybe they could, from that moment on, begin planning their wedding. That came to happen one dull October morning. He was reading in the sitting room Henry Jame's The Turn Of The Screw

. Dark Sanctuary

was on the cd-player, some huge clock on the wall was ticking desperately. “I said...”, she started over. He sighed and put the book aside, upon the settee he was seated on, and stared at her coldly. “I am not interested.”, was all he said dryly. “But I thought ...” At that, he extended his left arm and showing the back of his left hand directly to her face, he concluded: “Now, all my relatives and friends know I am not queer; thus, I am not going to need anything from you, any more. You are due to get away. Now, if you'd please...”, and, having said that, he picked up the book from the settee and resumed his reading, not paying attention to her. Thus, he did not see her silent cry, her total disappointment and sadness and sorrow, and so, he could not see how she went away, running, and how she got home and her mother looked at her hitting the roof.

“Where are you now, mother?”, she asked no one in particular. The stress was closing in; she could feel it. It was pitch black out there, so she could see, now that she came back to that reality, her reflection painted faintly on the window. For a bit, she could not recognize her own face, and she got scared of her own reflection within that accidental mirror. Then, she smiled and got up from the stool and approached the hearth. Tomorrow evening my mum will be here, she thought. Oh, good God! That was relief, somehow. After all that misery she had been through, after all the sadness and the angriness and the coldness, now she was free to be with her mum, at least twice a week, and so her heart was at ease, and she could wake up every morning and do things easily, like cleaning up the entire house and taking care of absolutely everything, just in order to avoid letting her mother down. She loved her with all her heart. She was the sole friend she got, the only one understanding her feelings completely, the only not trying to take her away, far away, from all that once had belonged to her, like this old creepy house. That night she went to bed happily, eagerly even, craving for the next day to come. Whilst sleeping, lying down in the bed, covered with two layers of blankets, put them there just upon some white bedlinen, smelling of flowers and sweets, she dreamt pleasantly, a wide smile deforming her yet still red and innocent lips, but just slightly.

Far from that house, he was staring at the ceiling, incapable of resting. Upon his face, a weird mixture of eagerness and regretfulness, as if trying to determine which one was going to win that interior argument, if that could be even feasible. The bedroom was darkened. He could see what time it was thanks to a red-bright alarm clock digital display, which was resting upon a small bed-table. Its intense mercury-coloured light-beam could be follow, slightly, with the corners of his eyes. It was cold out there, but the central heating he decided to install yesteryear coped with that quite successfully, so he could not feel any cold in there. He knew it was late, but he could barely sleep. As soon as he closed his eyes, he saw her in that house. “Wait for me, my darling,”, he said in a loud voice, “I'm coming.”

6

“I told you not to come over,”, she said, crossed. He shrugged and asked her permission to get in. It started to snow violently that evening, so some snowflakes lied upon his leather coat-shoulders, and his scarf was whitened despite the fact red used to be its colour. “It is freezing, may I come in?” She looked impatient. “Of course, otherwise you will perish out there.” She let him in, sparing some room in order to allow him to pass her without touching her. “Do me a favour, and stay in the drawing room, would you?” He was going towards that room, indeed. Whilst doing so, he nodded. She shut the door. The floor by the doorway was a bit wet. She made a move to the drawing room following him, who was taking his leather coat off. He put it upon the stool. Dusting his scarf from snowflakes, he said: “I wanted to see you.” She approached him from behind, her cheeks reddened as a consequence of that comfortable fire spreading warmth. She embraced him and let her head rest, for a while, against his back. “I love you so much,”, she said in a whisper, “but I told you not to come over when my mum...” she paused, sighing. There was only a forced silence, jeopardized from time to time by the crackling of those burning logs in the hearth. He waited for her to continue. Finally, she did: “I'd rather want you to be far away.” “Why's that?”, he asked politely. “I want to know.” She went away from him quite suddenly. “You know the rules, I told you.” “Yes, you did, indeed. But still.”. She smiled slightly; there he was: the first suitor who did love her, probably the only one she would ever meet, and between them those unfair rules. What if she decided to have sex with him that instant? She was excited, indeed; it would be easy to hurl herself upon his powerful arms and cover his face with passionate endless kisses. She felt an intense spark of flames down there, right in the groin, and put her hands over the wall, at one side of the window, as if preventing herself from putting them elsewhere. “You could be with me, you know that, do you not?”, he asked her. “Where?” “Somewhere else.” “But, what would I do in that somewhere else

place?” “Not much.” “Be happy?” “Perhaps.” “With you?” “With me.” “For years to come?” “For ever.” “And shall we be happy always?” “I promise.” “Always?” “Always.” She went by his side, looking at his eyes deeply. He took her hands and kissed them both delicately. She closed her eyes and let him caressed her face using his fingertips, and then a sole tear showed up. He wiped it away with one finger, and kissed her in the mouth. Those yet still red innocent lips opened automatically, allowing his tongue to get in and search for hers, deeply buried inside that wet cavity. When they met, she felt an intense spasm and her legs weakened, thus she almost fell down if it had not been for those powerful arms of his, holding her tightly. “I cannot do this.”, she complained, mumbling. He looked at her mystified. “Who are you, sweet creature?” “No one.”, she responded, still keeping her eyes shut. “Let me save you, please.”, he implored, almost crying. “What for?” “I love you.” “That's not enough, I fear.” “It has to be.” “No, it never has to.” She opened her eyes: now she was crying silently but he could discern her spasms and trembling, aroused. “Let's go upstairs,”, she said. “What about your mother?” “We still have some time.” “I don't want to hurry.” She opened her eyes and smiled oddly. “Come,”, and grabbed his left hand and led him upstairs, leaving the drawing room behind. That part of the house was surrounded by weird shadows. It was cold, probably because there was no central heating at all, so not wearing his leather coat he was terribly cold despite the sexual arouse he was experiencing, and therefore he commited her to hurry upstairs, until finding quite a shelter down the woollen brown blankets of her bed. The bedroom was a small one. Through those shadows painted oddly on the walls, he could make out a simple lamp upon a wooden small bed-table, and opposite the bed, where they were now lying in, a huge ancient wardrobe seemed to be watching them. In her naked embrace, he felt her smooth skin and her warmth, and he could contain his own excitement no more. So, amidst that terrible blizzard, they made love, and he could hear some snowflakes hitting the bedroom window, and the hiss of the cold wind pushing them, and he could even hear uncommon noises and what he thought it was an afar lament, probably human, but being in that paradise of young delicate skin he thought about that no more, and thus he fell asleep against her naked and small body, whilst she toyed with some wild strands of dark hair glued to his forehead.

A shaking came about three o'clock: he woke up, a bit drowsy, hearing her panicking: “Wake up!. Wake up!.” He sat up, turning his head towards her, now a mere blurred image as a consequence of that drowsiness inherent to his dream; little by little, her face was being painted plainly, so at last he could appreciate her scared expression possesing her flaring eyes. She was