On the way to Chapito

‘We were on the narrow streets of Lisboa, enjoying the warm and conffy breeze of a summer night, after having a few drinks at Primero Andar in the company of two exquisite lips, going towards Chapito, a place where culture, fine arts and quality people are celebrated.  At one point however, the street was flooded with music and inviting sounds. You couldn’t see at first from where it came, but you could hear it loud and clear. Beautiful music combined with peoples laughter, voices, clashing glasses and drums.
It was like we were pulled towards the place from where it came and after we walked a few more steps, we could see that it was blooming from the first floor of an old building, decorated with four balconies crowded with the peoples laughter, voices, clashing glasses and the drums that we heard earlier.

At the entrance was only a Portuguese sign which we obviously didn’t understand but probably it marked the building as being a historical monument and two guys in some curious looking outfits. They wore black shirts, white pants, white braces and for everything to fit perfectly, white hats. Even if they were standing at the entrance, in the same way that bouncers do in front of clubs, I somehow knew that they weren’t. They looked welcoming and not at all frightening as the other kind.
We decided to go in and by deciding I mean that I took her hand and dragged her in.

The stairs that we took didn’t look like much, I could say they looked more like less. On the top of them was a long corridor with an old wooden floor, the kind that makes squeeze noises when you step on it, but as we were walking it down you could hear the music louder and louder, seeing already the entry in the place from where it came from.

Calling it a room would emasculate it…it was a hall in all it’s glory. Probably a few decades ago, this was the place where the wealthy people had balls and high class dinners when they wore their best outfits.
As we entered, on our left side was a stage in close proximity, the long walls were filled with the typical Portuguese sandstone, painted with people from a different era and on the far right side was a mirror wall, for everybody to take a glance at themselfs.

In this glorious environment, there they were…tens of Portuguese people dancing Samba, Rumba, Chizomba, Tzumba and all the other latin dances ending in “ba”. But how they where dancing was the thing that amazed us the most. It was like it was the only thing they did all their lifes, becoming with each step better and better, dancing love, smiling happiness and showing freedom. You could see that they mostly knew each other, from the way they smilled and watched the others but also from the way they switched partners carelessly.

Listening to that rhythmic and mesmerizing music, seeing the fantastic people dancing and being in that fairy like place, made it impossible for us not to give the other the hand and start moving and stepping in a mirror like dance.

You could say that we were bad at it, but we both knew that it was not important, what mattered was the expression of the music that we heard, in the movements of our combined bodies.

Without being able to hold it anymore, I reached out and kissed her exquisite lips and without complaint they were kissing me back, slowly and shy in the begining but becoming more comfortable with each breath we took. She was a good kisser. I remember her fleshy neat lips and the fresh, spring like taste of her mouth and that I especially liked the way she hooked my lower lip at the end of each kiss.

We were overwhelmed by our colliding kisses, so the loud music that was playing in the background, was barely hearable anymore and all the people that were filling the room earlier, were missing now from our state of mind. We closed our eyes and just enjoyed what was happening between us.’

Fragment from my ongoing book writing

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