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19:26 POLITICS

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Sunday Story/ Mole on left thigh...

2023-05-28 20:20:00, Opinione Agim Xhafka

Journalist Agim Xhafka

People start talking about love from the time they turn 5 until they close their eyes. Even if it is over 100 years old. His heart aches for this well-wisher, he talks non-stop about him. He sees it in his dreams and creates scenes in his brain as the butterflies in his stomach dictate.

I am starting the story like this from where I used to have coffee under my building, there on "Sami Frashëri" street in Tirana, that morning three old people, even very old people, had started the meeting about love. Not for the general, symbolic, but for the concrete. The point is, can you forget the loves you've experienced? Or more precisely, how well can the heart beat in different weathers be remembered.

The most lively in this debate was Spiro. He was probably 75-80 years old. That after every word he uttered he repeated it.

- I, I also remember the love, the love with Vjollca, Vjollca, that I had as a bank friend, bank, in the third grade of elementary school.

I expected the other two men to laugh, but they didn't. A pause was set for those minutes. Maybe the friends they had in elementary school were thinking. But since they did not go deeper at that age, I thought that they had erased from their memory the period of childhood.

- I say that the love we experienced in our youth comes to mind from time to time, but as soon as xhagai appears in front of us, (he meant the woman) our visions are hidden. - said Berti, that's what they called him.

A rondocop who laughed out loud from time to time.

- You are right. As soon as you get married, the erotic biography you had starts to be erased. Otherwise, it becomes an anchor and you become dependent on the details of a time that is no longer yours, - Spiro spoke again.

At that moment, the waiter came and filled their glasses with brandy.

- There were two singles, you don't have any more for today, - he joked and the three men clinked their glasses.

I expected them to start the conversation again where they left off, that is, with past, old loves. But Fred, the third man, did something that shocked everyone. He took off his pants and dropped them below his knees. A comical figure appeared, with loose saddle muscles and knees so protruding that they looked like they were made of wood left at the mercy of the rain.

- What time is it! - drew Berti's attention.

Fredi po rrinte serioz. Mendova se qe i metë, ose mundet që kishte ndonjë sëmundje që nuk e linte të kontrollonte veten. M’u dhimbs, gati po shkoja ta ndihmoja të ngrinte pantallonat. Por bash atë çast ai u afrua më shumë te shokët dhe mu te fytyra u afroi shalën e majtë.

- E shihni këtë? - i pyeti.

Qe një njollë kafe e errët, pak më sipër se gjuri.

- Po, si nishan duket.

- Jo, jo. Është shenja e vaksinës së lisë. E keni edhe ju.

Të tre burrat e aprovuan. Po, e kishin dhe ata.

- Po ne e kemi anash dhe më lart se tëndja.

- E vërtetë. Infermierja kur ma bëri mua e kishte mendjen nga dritarja. Po binte borë atë moment. E nuk pa ku ma nguli gjilpërën. Pasi mbaroi e kuptoi gabimin. Kërkoi falje disa herë, por nëna ime nuk e bëri me faj. S’ka gjë, mjafton që u vaksinua djali, tha. Më pas shenja nisi të më bezdisë. Më fërkohej me pantallonat. Nuk bëja dot punë në se do përkulesha. Edhe kur fusja dorën në xhep nishanin do kapja.

Burrat po e ndiqnin me vëmendje. Shihnin herë Fredin në fytyrë, herë shenjën e vaksinës. Më pas biseda hyri në shkencë.

- Shko te një kirurg, bëje me rreze lazer, vendosi një leukoplast, mbaj benevrekë, lidhe ore me fasho…

Fredi nuk fliste. Shihte shokët, dëgjonte ata, ama pantallonat i kishte akoma përtokë. Rrinte mes lokalit xhveshur, mbuluar me brekët e bardha që i vareshin nga që qenë të mëdhaja për të. Në momentin kur Spiro premtoi që do i thoshte nipit, që e kishte mjek, ta vizitonte, Fredi bërtiti:

- Po unë nuk i ula pantallonat që ju të ma zgjidhni hallin. I ula të flas dhe unë për dashuritë e shkuara.

Shokët qeshën. Unë, nga tavolina ngjitur, që isha brenda bisedës së tyre kokë e këmbë, e pyeta:

- E ç’lidhje ka nishani yt me debatin që po bëni?

- Ka, o byrazer, ka, - foli Fredi. - Një dashuri e fortë nuk ka firo. Nuk është si një mollë që kalbet e më pas tretet, e ha toka dmth. Nuk ngjan as më shiun që bije, të lag, të përmbyt e s’ka nga t’ja mbajë, do ikë në det. Dashuria e zjarrtë është si ky nishani që kam unë në kofshë. Që edhe kur fle në krevat me gruan sa lëviz pak ose e ndërron krahun, pra sa e prek një çikë, të kujton se në aksh vit e në aksh vend ke qenë i dashuruar me aksh vajzë. Mund të mos kesh guxim ta flasësh me zë, mund të kesh rrethana që të heshtësh, të rrish si vuv, ama nishanin do s’do do e prekësh, nuk ke nga ja mban. Se e ke në trup, është njësh me ty. Dashuritë e shkuara janë zjarre që gjoja rrinë shuar. Brenda hirit të tyre dremit flaka që merr zjarr sa nis e kujton qoftë dhe një episod të vockël fare.

Freddy continued to talk and began to slowly pull up his pants. We all stared at his mole. Even though it hid under the pants, it seemed to grow on the rest of us. Our thighs started to itch. If someone asked us at that moment, we would all admit it, yes, we have a mole on our leg, we even have it at the place where Fred showed it to us. That mole seemed to me, in the language of today's young people, like a USB stick that holds inside so many gigabytes of fiery love passions covered with the gray ash of the weather...