27- Book cover

"I don't know," she said, looking at me with sad eyes.

"What did the second email say?"

"You wrote to me, 'Life, sometimes I wonder what the point of living is.'"

"I don't know what the second email meant, but I hope you find a beautiful meaning for life based on the love you have, and not the love that could be. Don't be afraid to do the things you no longer want to do, like taking care of me. It's useless to know a certain future and know that some things will never be, let alone think about what could have been and is now forgotten."

"Flaca, my life has meaning, and you are one of my reasons to live," I assured her, as I lit a cigarette and blew a cascade of smoke into the room illuminated by a lamp hanging above us.

"I love this hotel, it's cozy, and the breeze from the balcony is so refreshing," I said.

"Love, when you have those kinds of dreams, you leave me pensive. Because usually, your dreams tend to be prophetic."

"I know, maybe one day we won't be together anymore, and you'll send me two emails."

"That won't happen," I assured her, my eyes fixed on hers. Her brown, deep eyes looked at me with unease and infinite tenderness.

"I think in the future, we will learn to communicate through dreams," I declared. Vicki looked at me interested.

"You're right. Do you remember that one time when I dreamt that we met two girls on a mountain? And then a few hours later, we actually met Namelis and Alexa, the girls I had dreamt about."

"Yes, and Alexa and Namelis appeared out of nowhere asking for help," James chuckled lightly.

"I hope both of them are doing well."

"Most likely."

"Alexa really enjoys reading my writing. She writes too," I affirmed.

"Do you talk to Alexa?"

"Not regularly, but we do keep in touch."

"Finally, Lucho stopped bothering her."

"I'm glad," James confessed. "Has Alexa read anything you've written?"

"Yes."

"I don't like others reading it, I like being the only one who reads it, it's more intimate."

"I have a blog that only you read. I always write love letters to you," Vicki affirmed.

"I know, flaca, I always read them. What did Alexa say about what you write?"

"She tells me that she is a reader and gives me feedback."

"Feedback?"

"Yes, it's positive. My readers are my critics. Because my readers are people who deserve my story, who want the best for me, and I receive their criticism to grow with love."

"You know, I really value the feedback Alexa gives me, as well as the comments from my readers in general because I appreciate that they take the time to read me and form an opinion about what they've read."

"I always give you my feedback," I said, somewhat jealous.

"Love, I'm sorry if sometimes I hurt or disappoint you when you read my short posts on my blog or on Facebook or Instagram; sometimes it saddens me to give up joy when I write. It hurts me when people criticize me and say, 'You always write sad things, really?' If they could truly understand me, if they took the time to know my story, to read my books, maybe then they would understand that it's only tears that I write, but the purity is moving and beautiful. Perhaps to avoid judgment, I refuse to write and publish my art on social media. That's why I never profane the joy of true creation when I sit down to write my books, my work, my transcendence. My books are my treasures, my tomorrow, my today, my happiness. That's why my true readers are those who take, buy, and hold my books and letters in their hands. The others are curious readers who catch glimpses of my writing, and for that I thank them, but I don't accept their criticism because they don't know my story to judge me, let alone advise me on what I should write about."

"I am one of your readers, I am your Vicki," I said. "Because you always write about us, and I love it. Not everyone has the fortune or the responsibility of being the protagonist of all your books."

"Yes, love. You are my reader, and you are also my Vicki."

"If I were a writer, I would write about my life studying medicine," I explained, pondering the art of writing. In the end, I didn't have the soul of a writer like Vicki; I was born to make music, even though I now studied medicine, my heart would always belong to music. Playing the guitar was my true calling."

"And you would like to leave everyone intrigued about James Smith's life," Vicki added with a tender voice. "Probably, everyone would want to know more about you."

"You would write things like, 'I love my butt, I hate my university schedule. I'm leaving, I have a parasitology exam.'"

"I would tell them more about my hectic day, but I don't have a good reason to do so, I'm sorry," I said in a pretentious tone. We both laughed. She came closer to me and enveloped me in her arms. Her vanilla scent and the French perfume she used in her hair drove me crazy; I felt the warmth of her body against mine.

"I love you," I said to her.

"Really?" she asked in a soft voice.

"Yes."

"Thank you."

I held her tightly, and Vicki sat on my lap.

"Yes, please," she whispered, licking my neck. When I felt the touch of her tongue, I lost control, and all my defenses crumbled.

"Love me, love me a lot, every day of your life. And never stop doing so," she added in a soft voice, enveloping me with her naked body. The towel that was covering her fell onto her hips, and I looked at her breasts, soft and ample. She looked at me curiously, waiting for my reaction, so I brought my mouth to hers and let the cigarette burn out in the ashtray on the table.

"Now you're my Vicki, and I'm yours," I whispered in a soft voice. "Being yours is my true purpose. Yours forever."

"Ummm," she murmured, burying her fingers in my hair.

"You are so addicting, flaca. You are my favorite drug."

"That's what they say, I'm addictive when they read me, but when they fuck me… the narcotic changes, and so does the addict."

"Then," I said, looking at her with ferocity and pleasure, in a soft voice as I ran my fingers over her shoulders, "if we're talking about fucking, we should start right away. So you have a little more inspiration."

"Perfect."

"Yes, thank you," Vicki said, and then I kissed her, and she surrendered to my mouth. She completely gave herself in that kiss, feeling our tongues united. I kissed her, and Vicki became a poem that we wrote with our bodies. My beloved Vicki.

"Can you accept my spirituality, so different from yours, because it manages to transcend even though it's filled with life and joy? Will you torment yourself because my roots are so opposed to your freedom? My Vicki, you are so free, and I become so free when we make love. I don't experience happiness in the common way, but a sunny, warm day, like the one when you waited for me at the entrance of the terminal, brings me great joy, and that day, you spoke as if you were struggling against the light because it threatened to dissolve you, and your hair, your body, and your soul shone when you looked at me. 'I only experience pleasurable sensations, in love and in life,' you told me."