The Other Man’s Woman #Glass Lovers (excerpt)


“Clara, Jacques is in love with you!”

At 4 am in the morning calling from Bruges Miguel was beyond angry when he spoke.


“The entire evening Jacques talked only about you!  It was like Miriam and I were not even there!

Clara, do you have an inkling how it feels to listen to another man, describing for hours the women that you love? Your dress, the violet one made from taffeta, your estate diamond ring, the way you turn your head, the flares of your eyes, even your knees a bit closer than they should be when you walk, the fullness …”


I did not listen anymore. A pale moon was shedding its poisonous light on our bed; ghosts of Miguel and I making love still buried in the warmth of the peachy sheets.


I walked to the wardrobe. I took out my taffeta violet dress.  I started cutting it furiously: bit by bit, piece by piece.  From each piece the perfume that Jacques bought me for my birthday was permeating my lungs, crawling on my skin, poisoning my eyes.

Why did it happen? Why?


Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers 


i wish #poetry


i wish

i had the talent of the poet

who once wrote

Calm down, my Sorrow,

We must move with care.


I’ll have the shadow

of the autumn

when you’ll


like a seagull

heaving upward

an aching


choking call.


prompt: inscrutable


“Calm down, my Sorrow, We must move with care.”, Charles Baudelaire, Meditation

Painting: Paul Delaroche, The Young Martyr


The Beginning #Glass Lovers (excerpts from the introduction)


Our story began in France. From there it took us to the United States, to Mexico, to Canada, and back to France. On the shadows of Sacré-Cœur, our laughter gone, our wills broken, our souls scarred, longing for what once was us. Our future, heavy darkness starring back at us from a white abstract past:  like Malevich’s famous Black Square hanging on an indifferent wall.


Who was to blame for all that happened? As the story progresses I invite you, my dear readers to be the judges and the jurors. We could not judge ourselves anymore. We did that too many times. We got nowhere.


There were four of us:

Miguel, my mirific Conquistador: Moorish passions bursting from his Mediterranean skin, gleaming green eyes only half open in our nights filled with lust. His eyes look almost white in the dark. Oh, those nights when after making love he used to hold me in his arms against the window of our condo watching the lights of the city reflecting into the sky. He used to murmur rhythms of Mariachi songs while kissing my neck. Miguel, and his love for me. Miguel, my mundo nuevo.


Jacques, a Norman knight at heart: blue eyes cold like ice, expensive, impeccable shirts.  Jacques, in love with the complicities of the smiles that one only finds in the streets of Paris. Jacques and those cuff-links of his made from gold, and encrusted with roses.  Oh, how I remember Jacques’ laughter! It sounded like the reverberations of an iceberg falling into the sea.  Jacques, who used to say: “The beauty of this city dominates us, creates us, for we cannot create beauty anymore.” Was he right?


Miriam and that seraphic face of hers, her short black dresses scented with jasmine, her love for Jacques whispering like shadows on the roofs of Paris during purple dawns.  Miriam and her paintings violating the silence of her studio from which one could see Notre-Dame. Miriam watching silently Rodin’s Gates of Hell. I always wondered what she thought about it.


And then there was me: Clara. Who was I? We have time for that later.


How could four people who tried so much not to hurt others, end up hurting each other so deeply? How could we let all that happen to us?

According to our dear friend Angelo, a Greek born in America, it was my fault. I was the one who mistook reality for my imagination. I was supposed to know better.

Oh, no, Angelo, no! It was not like that! It was more like the Billy Goat curse. We were not destined to win until the curse was broken.


Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers


Rain-forest Dreams #Glass Lovers


Aroma of cherry cigars permeates the room.


Miguel’s tensed body lies against the bedroom door; his eyes closed; his jaw taut; perspiration trickling on his golden skin.


I continue reading Jacques’ candid letter:

“Clara, I saw you through the window of my soul. I cracked the window to inhale you from afar; to get drunk in your freesia scented hair. Just for a moment.  A whirling wind blew in intoxicating scents of the rain-forest: palms filled with sweet red berries, enormous wimba trees fogged in ancient legends, raindrops of violet orchids; anacondas coiling on the soil. I choked. I couldn’t help it, Clara!”


I stop. Grief.

Miguel’s eyes open; forgotten green clouds and thunder foment inside.

I walk toward him. Slowly I start unbuttoning his shirt.  My lips touch his humid skin. He does not move. His breath accelerates, his eyes stare into nowhere. Filled with pain, his voice resonates inside me.

“I love you.”


Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers

  • wimba trees are among the tallest tress in the Amazon Rain-forest.