Speaking of LPSG women, one that I miss is Giselle? Where is that girl? I miss her exotic accent, you know? I miss the wonderful latin syntax she uses, where you just hear music when she speaks.
I miss the funny European way she purses her lips when she is searching for the right English word. I miss the way she tosses her long black hair around the back of her neck to over one shoulder then tips her head and looks at you as if she has never seen you before. I miss the way she acts like a frisky little girl in the morning and in the evening she smolders in that ageless fashion from her flashing black eyes.
I miss the way her neck smells like a spring garden at any time of the day or night. I miss the little room we used to make love in above that cantina in Porto Santo. I missed the little sink and the Catholic icons she had on the old bureau that belonged to her avó. In that room we would make love to the rhythm of the fishing boat lanyards softly clanging like constant background music to an island paradise.
I miss the way those old fishermen whose gnarled brown hands were indistiguishable from the nets they were mending would look up and watch her as we walked by them in the bright coastal afternoons. From their wistfull looks, I finally learned the meaning of saudade. I felt like I owned the world with this marvelous creature walking next to me. Her walk was always casual, but the catlike way she moved gave away her girlish athleticism.
I miss her softly singing to me in portuguese. I understood none of it but the sadness of the ancient fado came through to me nonetheless. She would always put me to sleep with it on those hot afternoons under the gently blowing old lace curtains in the window that looked out onto the praça. Coming from her it was like an old language of love sounds made to go right to your subconscious. I miss the cadence of her speech and the funny portuguese way she pronounced the letter "d" while jutting out her chin a little bit.
I miss drinking Madeira at night at the little candlelit table under the grape arbor in that little restaurant down the street. We would walk back smelling the damp salt laden sea air and listening to the chirp of the bat ballet above our heads in the pitch dark. She would swear she could recognize some of the chirps of specific bats from other night strolls of ours. She was funny that way, saying things that she just made up as if she were writing a story. I was too love drunk to react to those things. I just let them weave themselves into the dream that was those amazing few months we spent on that island. It was all too good to be true, anyway.
..... Oh sorry. Was I talking out loud? Anyway, has anyone seen Giselle?