Valeska

When I saw your for the very first time, Valeska, I was only fourteen years old but I had just irrevocably realized that I would never be a pretty girl. You were not only pretty, you were a beauty. And in the moment I saw you I fell in love with you. You marked quite a beginning of many years of constant, hopeless falling in love. I was very good at this and still am. But first I saw you in the old, half-rotten staircase, you leaned in a half open door in the late hours of an afternoon, dusty and dirty was the floor, and quite sharp reflected your appearance against the dampness in the empty hallway. You wore a white dress, I thought you were a bride, you were not at all. The skirt ended shortly above your knees and I stared at you bare legs, you kept in a nearly ninety degree angle, leaning with your back at the door. Oh, Valeska, how can one not fall in love with these, with your legs. Milk- white was your skin, I never saw such white ever after, and I still wonder, because the sun burnt down all day long, all year-long, how you could appear like this, but you did never mind. You waited for your lover to come, and you smoked patiently. I tried for many years to smoke like you, but I never had a chance, my fingers too clumsy and never lady-like enough. When I looked down from my window, down in the wild and rotten backyard, I saw you kissing your lover, slow and deep. Oh, Valeska, how could one not fall in love with your mouth, with the tip of your tongue, your neck, swanlike, your back pliable as such of a dancer and a dancer you probably were. And I could not stop looking at you, how you stretched your arms out to your lover and it was as if you would embrace the world. I fell in love with you Valeska and when your lover beat you up hard and I saw you running down the steps I had lost my heart. A few days later you were back, your right eye was black. Oh, Valeska, how could one not fall in love with your eyes? I could not help it, and drowned deep. I swore to g*d and myself that I could see to the ground of the sea in your eyes. While I spent my afternoons, wrapped in black cardigans and layers of scarfs on the rooftop terrace reading, you came from time to time, to take a sun bath. You opened the buttons of your dress, just let it drop and laid down. Big-sunglasses covered your eyes. But you smiled gently in my direction and then you touched your breasts. Oh, Valeska, how could one not fall in love with your prefect breasts? Not even Jean Seberg’s were as pretty, as perfect as yours and no, Kate Moss is no comparison at all. My heart skipped a beat and I tried to hide deeper in my always too wide cardigans. But you just leaned back and I was in love. I loved your ear lobes and your nostrils, your toes and your upper-lip. This afternoon remained the only one, where we met so closely. When you got up, you gently leaned over to me and touched my hair. I felt close to paradise. A few weeks later, you rushed down the steps again, your lover had kicked you out and I never saw you again in the dusty doorway or on the rooftop terrace. But for many years, I watched out for you Valeska, grown-up, still not pretty at all, still in love with cardigans and books and still remembering you. I fell in love unhappily again and again, with more men than women, but when they as they do here in the moment angrily discuss if a man might be allowed to marry a man, and a woman might kiss a women with legal acceptance, I just wonder that there truly people exist, who are not able to fall in love with a perfect pair of earlobes or breasts or a marvelous modeled back.

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