He came close.
  I wish I could tell the story properly - but my words seem futile now, like the muffled sounds of the waning wind outside my window.
  He came close to me like the swan, you know the one in the parc, that fascinated and frightened me when I was five. I used to go to the parc every saturday with mom, who was otherwise always too busy to remember me, but in saturdays she felt it her motherly duty to take me to the parc. I was so pleased, I enjoyed it so much, I felt so loved - we would sit there on a bench feeding ducks and geese and sea birds with lumps of dried bread, and sometimes she would open her purse and give me a coin to buy icecream for, if it was summer - but what thrilled me most was when she on rare occasions brought a story book and sat and read to me; mesmerising stories of mighty kings, daring knights and lonesome princesses. It was not until I was sixteen I realised she had been taking me just to put herself on the track of the athletic men who happened to be jogging there. I never asked why all those strangers gave my mommy smiles and telephonenumbers. And I never asked what she did with them.
  He came close to me like that swan, that came to me one silvery winter afternoon, when I was five. I had gone all the way down to the lake, chasing ducks and an occasional raven, pretending to be a knight in shining armour. Then suddenly I saw it, it was hiding among the weeds of the beach bed, not visible to mom sitting over on the bench. I started at it, thinking it was a very big duck, but then it looked at me. Have you ever seen the eyes of a dying swan? His glossy black eyes seemed to pierce me, paralysing me so that I couldn't move an inch. They filled me with fear. I wanted to scream and run away, I remember it so clearly, the bitter taste in my mouth as if I had eaten a wasted nut. Then, with a sudden tremour, the eyes brightened, unfolding, until they looked like the stars of Scorpio which my father had pointed out to me once, before he went away. With a sudden awareness that only shows itself to children and old people, I knew that he was dying. He was dying from a poisoned thorn that had gone through his body, all the way up to his heart, where it clung to the aorta. I saw it in pictures, gliding through my opened mind, and I sat down and took the swan in my arms, for I was not afraid anymore.
  I fell terribly ill afterwards.

He came that close to me.

At first I thought he was a painter, he had that dark, moody feel about him, that seem to mark an artist. But his nails were clean and white, a bit long perhaps, but well tended. He wore no jewellry and when he looked at me I felt his eyes had the colour of melting ashes. Dim and penetrating at the same time. He only looked at me once that first night, though. Then he sat down by a young blond girl - with such a plastic smile and curved forms that I knew I didn't stand a chance. So I simply finished my espresso and left.
  The next night, we both returned. I hadn't planned it, at least I thought I hadn't, but there I was, sitting in a corner, sipping at the hot drink that shimmered in my cup. He seemed even moodier this night, walking slowly through the café, looking at people until somebody finally became nervous and told him to hit it. And so he did.
  I didn't see him for a week, I told myself he had made no impact on me, and kept going to the café every evening, hiding in the darkest corner they had.
  Then he came again. This time it was late, just a quarter to closing time. I was just about leaving, as I had noticed I was the only one around except for the old waitor and the baking lady out in the kitchen. We almost bumped into eachother, and I started mumbling my excuses, when the whole room seemed to freeze. He filled it up. I looked up, helplessly, into his strange, floating eyes. He smelled softly of perspiration and... ashes.
  - I've been looking for you.
  - I've been here all the time.
  - I know.
  - But why then... I fell silent. There was nothing to ask really. It didn't matter.
  - Are you coming?
  - Yes. I noticed I was whispering, so I cleared my throat and tried again. Yes!
  It came out as a shriek this time. I blushed and he smiled, not as if I had amused him but rather as if I had... given him pleasure, in a way.
  - Good.
  He bid me his arm, as if I had been a lady from the last century, and we strode out into the icy black night.
  - Should we go to my place? I surprised myself. What the hell was I thinking, making offers to a stranger like this? I could not say. There was something...
  Something very different about him. I was scared but relieved at the same time. Glad that my waiting was over. What had I been waiting for? There was no reply.
    As we were walking down the street I noticed that he took the lead. As if he know precisely where to go. Then...oh...then it's dim. I didn't know then, and I don't know now. But suddenly we were standing outside my flat, and I searched my bag for the keys. We went inside and I was struck with nervosity. What should I do? What was the next step?
  - Do you want something to drink? I asked dumbfoundedly.
  - No, thank you. His voice was like a blanket winding itself around me. Not now.
  - Ummm...some music perhaps? Please - step inside. Don't stand in the hallway. I started at his coat, then realised my forwardness, and froze in action. He smiled, unleashed the belt and hung up the coat himself.
  - Yes. He said. Yes, some music would be nice.
  I nodded and went into the living room, very aware of his presence surrounding me, as if it was slowly filling up my appartment the way that it had done with the café.
  I began, reluctantly, to go through my CD-collection.
  - Mussorgsky. His voice was very soft, his warm breath swirling over my neck as he bent over me to pick the CD he had mentioned. Mussorgsky would be alright.
  - Oh, ok. I said, watching as he opened the CD player and slipped in the disc. And then...
  He came close.
  Close as the dripping sweater to a wet body. Close as my skin to my tendons. Close as death to the mind.
  Close as the swan.
  My words are falling into darkness. As was my soul that black night. His lips were like cotton, they encircled me and touched me until nothing remained that was untouched. His voice, his presence, were enough but there was more. There was a mystery yet to be solved, lurking inside him - and in me.
  He came close.
  If only I could describe it, then, perhaps, I would be free. But I'm still wondering. Remembering his pale skin and glowing, flowing, dripping eyes. Remembering the heat of his tongue on my neck. And nothing more.
  I don't know.