"I approach and embrace steadily her firm and smooth body. Many colors appear and our faces - both smooth, childish faces - go closer. She touches my face and moves me an inch away, and sees me. I see her reddish skin on her cleavage. Firm, tender, fresh skin breasts.
I see her eyes, red hair under sunlight. Textures of skin, lips, rouge tones, strawberry and leave’s scents. She sees my mouth and my eyes, the contrast of blue and red vivid tones.
Slips a fingertip over my lips. I put it on my mouth with gentle and firm suction. We approach towards the kiss with her fingertips still between our mouths. It gets wet, tasty, warm.
I take off my shirt and she knows why. And that gives shivers on both of us."

Lying down, she tumbles over the bed, like a chess piece that falls doing what is right to do along the play's course.
Following her, I also lay down flowing with the continuous flux of our conversation. I hear my words, I can imagine my lip's movement and with eyes fixed on hers, I call her to realize the image: the sunray is still there through the curtains, lighting the place, and I'm golden hair on tan skin.
On that moment, the waltz gets linear arrowed to the direction of fusion.

XY: How would you name our children?
XX: I don't know.

XX: Why do people have children, anyway?
XY: I don't know.

XY: I'd like to have children after I have it all figured out.
XX: All what?
XY: Who I am. Which kind of person I am. What is my greatest fear. In some cultures, this is the goal on life. Knowing your fear.
XX: What does have to do with our children?
XY: I want to know what kind of kids I will raise.
XX: Hum. But you can't know that.

XX: You know your mother will be there and you should take her a gift.
XY: Maybe, yes. I don't know. I used to give her mugs on special occasions. Maybe a another one.
XX: Yes, that sounds nice.
XY: I don't know if you're going to like them.
XX: I bet I will.
XY: They're nice people. They will love you.
XX: Will she ask me about children?
XY: Maybe. But she's not going to pressure.
XX: I bet I will like her.
XY: You said that about your mother.
XX: You liked my mother.
XY: Even when she called me "Andrew".
XX: It was the soap-opera.
XY: It was your ex-boyfriend.

"Witnesses, actors and writers of the flowing scene we simply had to manage to perform. And we knew how to. There was no choice on that moment, it was simply accepting those parts.

As fine art - or like what a fine work of art was meant to imitate, while being the genuine inspiration. Experienced as both art and life - minucious, detailed, composed as art and big, spontaneous, memorable as life. A contemporary urban elfic legend."