It must have been sometime in the afternoon, although it’s hard to say. There was definitely a sunbeam crossing the barrier of apartment buildings, reflecting from the old lady’s window across the patio to land triangularly shaped on the wall – right above the pillow-case bit that was visible out of the corner of the blue-ish linens. The bed was covered with a citric green blanket, and next to it was the bookshelf and the armchair – basically the only furniture in the room – apart, perhaps, from the leather futon across the room (although that wouldn’t really qualify as furniture). The heat – at least they thought it was the heat – was sucking all of the moisture out of the air.

Dean wasn’t paying much attention to Don’s guitar stroking, but his attentive look suggested otherwise. With his thumb, he persistently rubbed his pinky’s nails with a movement along the white line the separates it from the skin. He was barefoot and shirtless. As if suddenly aware of a leg cramp that had been building up and grew into numbness, Dean rose to his feet, only to take a step to the side and blend into the armchair cushion. “It’s hot in here”, he said without addressing Don, not necessarily at least. There was the audible sound of the clock they had found downstairs, by the entrance door, just a few days ago. Normally, you’d have to concentrate on the tic-tac in order to distinguish it in the midst of sirens and school bells. Despite facing the back of the building, Don’s apartment was not free from these daily reminders of whatever life or death was going on out there. That Saturday, however, there were no impediments to the battery-run clock. It ran wild.

In a non-responsive answer to a non-question, Don looked up at the ceiling to what could’ve been imaginary clouds of heat floating motionless and heavy above their heads. The gaze made him aware of the texture of his own hair resting on his shoulders and the heat, the dry heat it generated where it encountered his neck. “I should shave sometime this week”, he thought to himself, more as an excuse than as a goal, conscious of his own affection for facial hair – anyone’s facial hair, especially his own. The guitar pick felt different – heavier – between his fingers. The moisture between skin and plastic was a layer, a tangible layer of matter. “Shabop shalom”, Don let out with gentle picking movements that made the strings resonate and break the clock’s determined and unstoppable march. “But marching towards what?”, both of them might’ve thought at about the same time, suspicious of each other’s synchrony, but one can never be sure. The clock did not stop at their hesitation.

It seemed to Don that only now did Dean switch positions – from the bed to the flowered themed cushioned armchair – but somehow the feeling was misleading, he felt. “What?”, he asked Dean, who understood where he was coming from and what he was aiming at. It didn’t bring either of them to the realization – one they had both shared in their intimate so many times before, yet never spoken of it – of the silent and gentle choreography they performed. And had they been aware of this unrealized epiphany of theirs, it would’ve pleased them to recognize such coherence between thought and action, intention and gesture, for rationally acknowledging the feat defeated its purpose by all means. They were successful in their ignorance.

“Another one?”, was Dean’s reply to the texturally aware Don. The question – not so much in search of approval as much as an awakening to his own desires – might have been a statement. “Another one.” It was too late now, for the words had already come out of his lips with an inescapable question mark. Paralyzed on the cushioned armchair, Dean knew that even so it wouldn’t have corresponded to his deep inner yearnings. Silence had done it; followed – shortly, perhaps – by the breaking of immobility that most faithfully revealed his wishes. He saw the movement he was about to perform; first in his head. Time moved thus.

“I can’t feel my hands”, Dean heard Don whisper, unsurprised and unconcerned, while playing the part he had been rehearsing in meditation. Staring at the pick in his hand – small, pizza-shaped, fading blue – he tried to remember the random information found on Wikipedia about the guy who first started commercializing CDs. The music had stopped flowing from his hands to the strings and from it, to fill the room, crowded by clouds of humid smoke. Again the clock was ticking. Dean too had heard it, he looked over at Don. “We’re out.” The words made Don look away from the guitar pick to the sunbeam – now fractured in cubic forms – and smile.

Their looks met half way. Not their hands. The tic-tac suggested not so, but time stopped and sped up simultaneously. It caught up to itself. They knew not how long afterwards their lids – all four of them – responded to both of their brains and, in vertical closing and opening, blinked. The pick was nowhere to be seen, although the guitar had been carefully placed by the armchair. The heat had dissipated into the breeze; windows open all the way. There was no tic-tac to be heard. The streets spoke and so did some neighbors, partying downstairs – a record playing piano jazz filled the bathroom with its resonance. But Don and Dean were not there to hear it. It was already Sunday. It was still summer, and with the evening, they had left the room and the smoke. Out there and in here, time was the same.

This story was published by Philos Magazine
(Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, April 2020, during quarantine of Covid19)

Parece ser a tarde. É difícil precisar. O que é certo é que o raio de sol que corta a barreira de apartamentos empoleirados e se reflete na janela da velhinha de frente aterrissa triangularmente na parede do quarto, logo acima da quina de fronha que escapa da cobertura dos lençóis azul intenso. A cama sob o edredom verde cítrico está ao lado da prateleira de livros e da poltrona – os únicos móveis do cômodo, não fosse o pufe de couro envelhecido e desgastado que repousa displicentemente do outro lado do quarto (mas pufes não contam como móveis). O calor, é o que ambos pensam, drena o ar de toda sua umidade.

Dean não percebe, mas ignora as carícias melódicas que Don aplica nas cordas do violão de cabeceira, muito embora seu olhar alerta sugira o contrário. Com o dedão direito e insistência mecânica, percorre a superfície da unha do mindinho da mesma mão, seguindo a linha branca de sua extremidade dáctila. Está descalço e sem camisa. Subitamente tomado por uma câimbra hipotética que estaria levando seus membros inferiores à dormência, Dean se ergue de um salto em um movimento rígido, em seguida lânguido, e que termina com um passo ao lado e uma acomodação uterina no aconchego da poltrona. “Tá quente”, ele diz sem forçosamente se endereçar a Don. O ruído do relógio é audível; o mesmo relógio que haviam encontrado na entrada do prédio uns dias antes. Nem sempre é fácil distinguir seu tic-tac ritmado em meio a sirenes e sinais escolares vizinhos. Ainda que de fundos, o apartamento de Don não se isenta destes lembretes cotidianos da vida e da morte que se entrecruzam lá fora. Neste sábado, contudo, não há obstáculos ao relógio de ponteiros. E ele corre sem freios.

Respondendo sem querer ao que não foi indagado, Don ergue o olhar para o teto para traçar o contorno das nuvens imaginárias de calor que pairam sem movimento e sem leveza sobre suas cabeças. A mirada o alerta para a textura de sua própria cabeleira repousando sobre os ombros e também a do calor, seco, que se propaga no encontro dos cabelos com o pescoço. “Preciso fazer a barba esses dias”, pensa consigo, se justificando mais do que se motivando, sabendo muito bem de sua afeição por pêlos faciais – inclusive os de outrem, mas em especial os seus próprios. A palheta pesa diferente entre os dedos. A umidade entre a epiderme e o plástico que a recobre forma uma camada de matéria, real e tangível. “Shabop shalom”, faz Don com finos movimentos dedilhados que levam as cordas melódicas a ressoar e interromper a marcha determinada e indomada do relógio. “Marchando para onde, afinal?”, ambos poderiam se perguntar em silêncio concomitante, suspeitos de sua sincronia sem verbos, mas sem nenhuma certeza. Diante de tal hesitação, o relógio segue sem vacilar.

“Um outro?”, responde Dean à consciência textural de Don. A pergunta – menos em busca de aprovação que o despertar de seus próprios desejos – afirma. “Um outro.” Agora é tarde demais para isso, já que as palavras escapolem de seus lábios com uma implacável interrogação final. Paralisado na poltrona, Dean no fundo sabe que, ainda assim, a assertiva não faria jus a suas aspirações mais íntimas. O silêncio sim; seguido – quem sabe – pela quebra da inércia que traduz com tamanha fidelidade suas vontades. Ele vê o movimento antes de efetuá-lo. Assim move-se o tempo.

“Não tô sentindo minha mão”, é o sussurro de Don, quase inaudível para Dean, que se mantém sem surpresa ou preocupação, interpretando o papel ensaiado meditativamente. Encarando a palheta estendida sobre a mão – pequena, triangular, azul-desbotado – seus pensamentos se distanciam do quarto para a lembrança de informações aleatórias recentemente lidas sobre o cara que abriu caminho para a comercialização de CDs. Não se ouve mais música pela carícia de seus dedos sobre as cordas, e delas, para todo o quarto, agora todo tomado de vapor e fumaça umedecida. Adiante, o relógio, sempre adiante, batendo. Dean também o ouve e fixa o olhar de Don. “Acabou”. Diante de tal assertiva, Don desvia o olhar para a palheta e dela para o raio de sol – repartido agora em cubos assimétricos – e sorri.

Os olhares se cruzam. Não os dedos. Embora o relógio possa sugerir o contrário, o tempo acelera e freia simultaneamente, alcança. E chega a tempo. Não se sabe quanto tempo se passa antes que suas pálpebras – as quatro – respondam ao comando neural que ordena, sem negociação, que, em coreografado movimento vertical, eles pisquem. Não há mais sinal da palheta, embora o violão descanse cuidadosamente ao lado da poltrona. A umidade dissipa-se pela brisa fresca; janelas completamente abertas. O tic-tac não se ouve. As ruas clamam, assim como falam vizinhos no andar de baixo – o som de uma vitrola irradiando jazz ao piano preenche todo o banheiro com sua reverberação sincopada. Só não estão Don e Dean para ouvi-lo. É domingo. É verão, e com o cair da noite, deixam atrás de si um rastro de quarto e vapor. Lá fora como aqui, o tempo é o mesmo.

Esse conto foi publicado pela Revista Philos
(Rio de Janeiro, Brasil, Abril 2020, durante a quarentena de Covid19)