Rendition of a recollection

Then He looked at me. I thought that he was looking at me for the first time. But then, when he turned around behind the tree and I kept feeling his slippery and oily look at the back of me, over my shoulder, I understood that it was I who was looking at him for the first time. I turned away, let the black beads in my eye sockets tag behind the fading breath of the sea... unto the deathbed of its gentle waves. I turned my gaze towards the sky phoenix slowly, heavily tucking its fiery red wings into a cool orange blanket now sprawled over the feet of an otherwise lazy, blue and white canopy. I brought my eyelids low over my eyes and forced into my retired lungs the salty mist of the sea breeze, and the black moist of the dry sand. This, I did if only to make a memory. To freeze into eternity, a moment; the moment; that moment. I dragged my exhalation to a painful sigh before sitting up, spinning to his side and bringing my legs up on the cement to face him. After that, I saw him, as if he'd been sitting there, looking at me since time in memorial. For a few split seconds, that's what we did- look at each other. He turned. With a long and quiet hand on the edge of the cemented bench. It was then that I remembered the additional thing, when I said to him: "The spirit may be willing but the flesh is weak." Without taking his hand off the cement, he said to me: "That. That, we'll never forget." He left the orbit, repeating to himself: "The spirit is willing but the flesh, weak."

I saw him walk over to the mesh hall. I watched him appear in the hazy mirror of the bright, white floor tiles looking at me now at the end of a back and forth of mathematical light. I watched him keep on looking with his great, blue coal eyes: looking at me while his shadow was easily diced by the multitudes of small wooden frames that composed the windows of the hall. I saw him blindly take an overturned glass and fill it with drinking water. When he finished, he turned and started towards me once more. He innocently approached me saying: "I am afraid someone is dreaming about my hidden world and revealing my secrets." And in my direction, he held out his fragile hand holding the glass of water. And he said : "You don't feel the cold." And I said to him: "Sometimes," taking the glass from him. And he said to me: "You must feel it now." I took a drink of the water and I understood why I couldn't have been alone on the bench. It was the cold that had been giving me the certainty of my solitude.