Dream in a Private Bubble.

Onde o seu sonho é sempre mais que uma ficção!

Olá, pessoal. 
Hoje eu venho com uma novidade. 
Alguns já devem saber que eu sou completamente apaixonada pelo idioma inglês. E atualmente resolvi tentar minha sorte escrevendo estórias em inglês. Esta é baseada na música "Me And Mrs. Jones" e é pequena, em forma de conto. Embora vários artistas tenham gravado esta música, eu me inspirei na performance de Michael Bublé. Criarei um marcador "Contos" onde estarão as estórias conforme eu as for escrevendo. 
Espero que gostem. 
Um beijão. 

Me and Mrs. Jones 

England, the ‘80s.

He was waiting for her at the same time, at the same place as always.

Because she was a bit late, he checked his watch again. The dark-haired man wasn’t really worried that she would not come, but more with the prospect of that something could’ve happened.

In their situation, something always could go wrong. Most of the times it did, sooner or later. That’s why the worry and anxiety were constants in his mind and heart. Oh, he would give anything to change their situation. Any and every thing.

But that was not her wish. And he had to respect that. Even if it hurt him. And even so, because they both had obligations to attend to. He would like very much to run away with her and leave everything behind, but that was not possible.

As the minutes passed by, he was really considering calling her. Even knowing that that was a no go. There were rules between them; they had had to establish some if they wanted their relationship to work. He had specific hours to call her, he must not ever send any presents or go visit her.

He hated the rules, hated the limits, but knew that they were necessary. Essential. He wished they weren’t, but that was not his right to determine. The man looked up as a waitress approached again to ask if he knew what to order already.

She knew him, of course. And she knew what he was doing there. The same thing that he always did at specific week days at that Café for the last four years. And she knew, even though she’d been working there for only two years, that he always waited for his company and that he always asked for the same thing: tea and French toast.

But the waitress kept doing that every time, staring at him through blue eyes. Criticizing him. Judging him. The man didn’t blame her. She was still too young and cynical to understand, still too free to know how love, even when beautiful and sweet, could chain you like nothing else. 

He repeated that he’d wait a bit more and thanked her. The girl nodded and, with a last look at him, left the man by himself and his thoughts once again. He didn’t have the chance to follow with his questioning, though. At that moment, the Café’s doors opened and she appeared.

Bright as a summer day, the most beautiful redhead in London. The most beautiful woman in the whole wide world. She was wearing a pretty blue dress and rubies around her neck. She looked right to the table that he always chose, a discreet one in a corner, and she smiled when she saw him.

His heart stopped and started beating again. As always. There it was. The reason for his happiness and his worry, for his smile and for his tears, for his eyes to open each morning and to close each night. She was his entire being because she made him feel alive.

And his heart sank a bit looking at her hand. He always looked as if hoping to find something missing there. He always tortured himself, but he could not help it. He loved her too much not to hope. But there was nothing missing. He feared that it wouldn’t ever be. He just had to accept that.

She walked in his direction still smiling; the rubies tinkling at her neck and ears and the locks of her red hair shining with the sun that came through the windows. She was so unbelievable gorgeous. And he loved her more than himself. She loved him too. It should’ve been enough.

It wasn’t.

She was before him now and there were tears in her eyes. There were always. She teared easily, but he knew she was happy to see him. They passed the weekend without seeing or talking to each other and she had missed him. She said all those things without opening her mouth. She said through her eyes. She said through her smile.

She was Mrs. Jones. His life, his soul. And she was also another man’s wife.


The jukebox played soft in the room; the melody hanging in the air as a track of perfume left behind.

Outside the night had already taken place. The streets were still full, though. Young couples walking hand in hand and whispering secrets – lost in the fantasy of the beautiful romance.

Inside the lovers laid on the bed, enjoying the afterwards of lovemaking.

He looked at her face, feeling her body so close to his. Her soft breasts pressed against his arm as she caressed his chest slowly.

She lifted her face and stared back at him. “I love you.”

And he believed her. He also believed on that moment that he was the luckiest man alive. That was an illusion, course. She belonged to another. But he allowed himself the lie, because it was all that he had.

“Please, don’t.” She asked with pleading eyes. “Don’t think of him now.”

He nodded and brushed a tear that escaped from her eye. “Don’t cry. I love you too.”

He touched his mouth to hers, wishing things were different. He remembered back at the time when he first met her.

It was at a ball that her husband was throwing. They were new business associates and he received an invitation to attend it. He was young and innocent at the time and he was so pleased that finally his business was getting along.

He remembered thinking that he couldn’t possibly be happier than he was. Well, the destiny had proved him wrong. Mr. Jones was very fond of him, he said so all the time, and he was extremely content to introduce his wife to him.

Come and meet my jewel’, he had said while leading him to where a beautiful redhead was standing. She turned around when her husband called and smiled. He thought he had never seen anything more beautiful.

It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir’, she had said politely. But he couldn’t have stopped looking at her. Mr. Jones noticed and laughed aloud, clapping his back. He announced proudly that every man who met his jewel was immediately captivated by her. ‘But only I am the lucky one’, he completed with a warning tone so that just not him, but all close ears could hear.

He was still business associate with Mr. Jones. He treated him well enough, but in secret he had grown to hate him. He met with the man during the day and slept with his wife at night. He couldn’t feel guilty about it – because Mr. Jones had everything he wanted and didn’t appreciate it.

“Please.” She repeated touching his face. “Look at me. Just at me.” She pressed her lips against his again. “I know you’re upset, but I love you so much.”

“Come away with me.” He suggested, like he had so many times before. “Now I have enough to support us. You don’t have to continue living with him.”

She blinked and sighed. “What about my sister? You know I can’t leave her.”

“I know.” He answered and looked away.

Her sister was sick. No doctor could really name her illness, but she had a weak immune system. The girl was only nineteen and she had been at death’s door at least ten times.

The reason of their marriage had always been because of her sister. She accepted to marry Mr. Jones when he offered to cover the expenses of her sister’s treatment, allowing her the most comfortable life possible with her disease.   

He knew that, but couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge the injustice of the situation. He didn’t have the money to care for her sister and Mr. Jones only wanted her to pose as his perfect wife. ‘His jewel’, the old man always said. Just a beautiful piece to show off.

“I’m sorry.” She offered and bit her lip, holding back tears. “Are you going to leave me?”

He took her face in his hands, reading fear and despair in her expression. “How would I live without my heart?” He kissed her deep, wishing the moment to last forever. “And even if I could, I would not choose to be without you. You’re the only thing that matters to me.”

She nodded. “You’re my only true love. I belong to you. Even if I’m far away, I’ll always belong to you.”

He kissed her tears away, murmuring all the time soft things in her ear. They made love again, with the sweet calm of the tenderness and the desperate rush of the separation.

When it was time for her to go, he accompanied her to the door as always. He searched the streets to make sure it was safe and then nodded to her. They hugged for a long time, because they knew each time could be their last time.

“I’m already missing you.” She said while locking her eyes with him. “I’ll look forward to my dreams tonight.”

She always said something like that as they parted. Something that made him want to make a fool of himself and cry for the pressure in his chest.

He crushed his mouth against hers, holding her close. “I’ll be there waiting for you.”

She bit her lip and forced a smile, refusing to cry again. “I’ll see you soon.”

She never, ever said ‘goodbye’ to him. She insisted it was bad luck. He agreed. So as she said that, he nodded at her, making an effort to smile back. He knew she felt even guiltier when they parted and he appeared sad.

He brought her hand to his mouth and brushed her knuckles lightly. “Until tomorrow, my love.”

She kissed him one more time and then she was gone. He stood by the door watching her walk to the main street. She threw him a last quivering smile just before she got inside the cab.

He stood there even after she left. The mix of happiness and sadness filling his chest and his entire being. Every night was the same. Every night they made their hours together count because they didn’t knew if they’d be discovered. They didn’t know if that’d be another time.

He knew she was risking a lot meeting with him. If her husband discovered one day, he would probably punish her severely. He would probably kill her. He tried not to think about that. He tried not to remember the danger that he was inflicting her in.

But they couldn’t just let go. They were like oxygen to each other – essential for their basic survival.

And that was fact. Their love was solid. He knew that if someday the world faded away, they could count on each other to stay alive. It may have been a metaphor, but their feeling was that strong.

So he knew it was worth it. He questioned himself every night, but he knew that. It was worth the danger, the despair, the sadness, the fear. Their love was worth everything.

He entered his house again, hopeful. He would meet her again the next day. She would be there and they would spend hours together again. He would survive the future – the children she may have come to have, the years, the old age. He would survive everything as long as she responded to his love.  

And he knew it was worth it because a thousand years of chaos and misery couldn’t overcome the joy they felt with one minute together.

That was his fuel to continue on living. And his love was his hope to continue on wishing. One day, he assured himself, one day they would be together completely. Even if it took ten years or five lives.

All of it was worth it.



"Na literatura, o melhor meio de se tornar imortal é morrer." - Victor Hugo

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