The musketeer

She said she wanted him to do one thing.
They were sitting inside the veranda then and she was keeping her long feet on a round wooden table. He remembered how still everything was: the dog sleeping in the corner, the trees outside, her mouth after those words - all froze in the summer heat. I want you to do one thing. She was an animal  more than ever then with her long hair and sharp teeth, an animal that secured the treasures and kept secrets. He wished he had slapped her that afternoon and that a red mark on her face would have made her blush and obey like she never did. Instead he agreed and she smiled, her eyes full of liquid metal like that of melting golden bullets. It was the way she made him think.
Before he met her, the only thing he dreamed of with such obsessive passion was musketeers. Their hats with feathers, their uniforms, their loyalty and courage. He used to imagine himself as  D'artangnan: fighting, loving and finally witnessing an execution, watching the beheaded woman's body falling on the ground. For him, it was the moment of a musketeers' glory: a man declining his corporeal passion and mercy for the greater good. He wanted to be that man but she came and his childhood visions were brutally replaced with her continious presence.     
There was always something surreal about her as if she had walked out of Dali’s painting, pushed Gala away and stepped out of the frame, which was glossy wood and gold, and her feet were not yet touching the ground but her manner, her movements already betrayed the upcoming love story between her and life. It was the way God started her and the way she finished herself with smiles or tears – both equally imperfect and even ridiculous; it were those invisible waves knocking out the obstacles and then secretly coming back to her with all their crushing weight and how she hid it before making everything clear. He knew it just like he knew that he was the only one to realize who she was and that she turned her fragility into her strength, sharpened it until it became a foil, a katana, which grew inside her lean body, the tip reaching her heart muscle and reforming the circulation – it was the way she finished herself. There was no geisha in her: she had the blood of musketeers and samurais running through her legs, never letting her kneel or stumble, only fall – and she did. He would picture his fingers at her eyelids pulling them to sides, stretching the outer corners of her wide eyes until they would narrow and finally close forcing her to lay her head in his lap, to slip down at his feet with her nude ankles and thighs, to resign and wait in quiet like she never did. He imagined that after silence, after time he would lift her up, open her mouth and breath in her throat and how she would moan then, her tongue shivering, and he would drink out that little lake of saliva on it, in which all her mute words were sunk.
She was his imagination, poor and censored, blocking all the images that were not hers. He could see green fields, glorious greens fields with cows on the hills and her laying on the ground; and when he tried to cover her up with a shadow or a patch of grass, even flowers like those growing in the soil of graveyards, she would get up, open her eyes and stare at him, who was not present at that landscape, who was sitting on his bed with his arms crossed and feeling the cold whip of sweat landing on his back. He could not picture cities: the buildings would collapse; streets would suddenly end at her feet and she would smile - the tall dark-haired conqueror of his spaces, the traitor of his chambers.  She was his Cesar and his Brutus and he was the ancient Rome, where all murders took place. Yes, his fault was the fault of a setting, which fate or God had chosen and which nurtured the things that it could not avoid.
He could not avoid her that night. She stood in the grass waiting for him, much taller and stronger in the starlight than she ever was. Gentle darkness distinguished her sharp jaw line and her mouth, which he feared so much. She didn't touch him nor she spoke and he knew he had to stay till the end or the punishment would be unbearable. She told him in the afternoon how she would leave and then come back and leave again and how miserable he would become. She was an animal with the most precious fur, an animal in the ancient Rome. Now, sitting on his bed, he wished she had been someone more simple, someone, who could have brought him mild feelings rather than purifying them until the absolute and conquering his memory.
He remembered how she stepped forward and handed him a little bag with a smile. And then it finished. Her head was blooming on the grass and he kneeled at her body, more afraid than he had ever been. He knew he was the only one to realize who she was and that it did not hurt her. She never felt pain, he thought then, pulling her shirt up until the stars, if they existed, were blinded by her breasts. He squeezed them and he slapped her face, pulled her wet sticky hair and her head obediently moved to the sides. It was the weight and the feel of metal, the way that God created her and the way she finished herself with one word. Shoot.
This was the only time he was a musketeer.