Infatuation

Greg Minah

In the refreshingly empty surroundings of Marqt at Ceintuurbaan, I bumped into an infatuation from 24 years ago. That is to say, I didn't bump into her, I saw her striding through the aisles, in a fashionable vintage coat, her formerly blonde, now ashblonde-greyish hair still long, and – my god, was she in a good shape (afterwards, she would actually show off her good shape to me, opening her jacket like an exhibitionist, which was overdoing it a bit). I knew she was a mother, dividing her time between New York and Amsterdam, and well, trying to have a life (like all of us). Anyway, the reason I am recounting all this, is that yes, I thought of our infatuation back then, before all of us made decisions and got stuck etcetera. What a wonderful word. Maybe I was only infatuated with her so that I could use the word. Anyway, nothing happened, and, of course, nothing will ever happen. The opportunity passed, like a train in the night, and that train is never coming back; it got off the rails and was turned into scrap metal. I don't feel sorry about this. I was looking at her while she was bragging about her kids, her house, her everything. I looked straight into her big brown eyes. While I was looking at her, and admiring her shape, – she must have noticed that –, I thought about the awkward way she just greeted me. She took me by the arms, my face was approaching hers, but suddenly I found myself peering over her shoulder into the shelves with overpriced glutenfree products while my lips were searching for something like a fish out of water. I was being air hugged. Why? Was she afraid of germs? Was she afraid of a kiss, on the lips, a french kiss perhaps? I hadn't been planning on one.

Greg Minah's satisfying paint porn.

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