I started raising your dress when you cut your second onion. It was a long time since I watched you prepare this Italian dish. In the distance, a few bell-towers of Delft were beginning to ring the Angelus, but I thought of something else other than the frogs of holy-water font. There was the softness of your white skin, your blue band and your pearl shining in the darkness falling on the city.

And just when I could finally see the curves of your breasts appear in front of my eyes, I don’t know what exactly happened but your pearl earrings disappeared, the blue band turned into mere skin, not white anymore, but slightly burnt from which sun, I couldn’t be sure, and your hands which were cutting the third onion by this time suddenly had a jar of milk which you were then started suddenly pouring into my mouth.

You slipped on the floor, your clothes spreading over the white and black tiles, as if you were a lady on a chessboard. And under my assaults, you went from case to case, progressing like a chess piece. Imagine the eye of God, watching this scene from the Empyrean, or the eye of Johannes, our painter friend, from upstairs? I liked to hear you moan before the yellow brass pans, scream at the foot of the ebony table, start in the shadow of an astrolabe hanging on the wall, and end on the threshold of the cabinet of curiosity.

And me, you treated like your master sometimes, sometimes like your slave. After the end, sometimes we began again. Your heels piercing my spine and my soul, my hands handcuffed like my heart, my eyes fixed on the absolute leather nakedness of your body, and your stern voice telling me to only look, never touch, not even dream of touching what was yours, and that included my own body, which was, by then, already yours.

And yet, sometimes, I wondered how you could love me, I with my white hair, you with your youth, I with my wrinkles and my fatigue, you with your freshness and your enthusiasm. But when I am in you, when I explode in you, what does our age, what do our lives, these generations that surpass us matter? What does this envelope that masks my soul matter, what does your skin, which is only an extension of your soul, matter? What do these books, these paintings that transcend us matter? How important are these liters of wine that have consumed us? What do these meters of cloth that we have soiled, these masses of clothes that we have thrown away, this infinite times of exchanged kisses, matter? We are but one. We are one.

 

…

M & Mrs Hyde are the two tantric and trashy sides of a forgotten soul, with frequent Jungian mood, tiny red spot obsession, Bombay Sapphire passion, frequent insomnia, recurrent headaches, taste for Darjeeling, and fascination for words. Always travelling from East to West, and inversely.