#*gestur

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The Book of Queens by Joumana Haddad

The snake was a she, just like the snake charmer was a he. And she should dance and dance until he decides it is enough, and lets her crawl back into her basket. The venom is there, of course, in her saliva, but she wasn't taught how to spit on her oppressor. She was only taught to obey; to feel guilty she was a snake; and more importantly, to imagine that she was the one charming him. The perfect prey is the one unaware it is a prey. The cheating mirrors of human ego are irresistible.

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Jubah Laut karya Nayrouz Qarmout (diterjemahkan oleh Sasti Gotama), dari kumpulan cerpen The Sea Cloak.

Di antara wewangian aroma nostalgia dan samudra, kenangan-ingatan bertumbukan di benak kala ombak bergulung-gulung ke arahnya. Ia rasakan sengatan-gigitan pasir di kulitnya yang lembut. Betapa ingin ia terbebaskan dari gamis hitam yang memeluk erat tubuhnya. Ia benamkan jemari kakinya ke pasir basah, dan jejak kakinya, seringan kupu-kupu, segera lenyap tanpa bekas. Ia melangkah ke depan, takut-takut akan apa yang bakal terjadi. Kakinya terperosok dalam ceruk, terlalu dalam untuk melepaskan diri. Tetapi, ia terus melangkah, senang karena telah terjerumus. Tungkai gading itu telah sepenuhnya basah dan butiran pasir keemasan, berkilauan di sekelilingnya. Ia berenang lebih jauh. Air mersap ke bawah pakaian hingga menggelembung di sekitarnya. Ia rasakan gelenyar mendebarkan yang hampir tak tertahankan. Gairah itu bertumbuh begitu ia melanjutkan langkahnya, tanpa menyadari kulit kerang melukai telapak kakinya, menjadikan momen itu terlengkapi oleh beberapa tetes darah wanita. Rasa sakit dan gairah mencengkeram tubuhnya. Buih laut mengelilinginya bagaikan gelang madu yang berpilin-pilin dengan aroma arum manis, tepiannya berkilauan dengan cahaya keemasan tatkala buih itu menyerap nektar dari matahari yang melayang di awang-awang.

[theturnofthephrases]

Cala Ibi oleh Nukila Amal

...berkali-kali aku menatap wajah seorang pria dengan bekas luka di wajah, di meja sebelah. Bekas lukanya membujur turun dari pelipis ke rahang, biru ungu. Aku menatap sinar kuning yang melintas turun dari atas kepalanya, jatuh di sepanjang pipi kanan dan bahu, berpikir, akhirnya, inilah seorang pria yang bisa kucinta. Akhirnya, inilah seorang pria yang pernah berdekatan dengan kematian, menatap gelap raut maut, segelap wajahnya segelap Bacardi Cola dalam gelas. Akhirnya, inilah pria dengan luka, manusia, yang tak coba menyembunyikan duka di wajahnya. Hampir mati, hampir marti, selamanya martir, untuk sesuatu sebab yang diyakininya begitu rupa hingga bertaruh nyawa ...

Ia berdiri, martirku berdiri, aku melihat punggungnya menjauh. Punggungnya seluas sabana, mungkin ada bekas luka lain di sana, panjang seperti ilalang (aku ingin menyusuri garis ungu itu dengan jariku, dengan bibirku). Pria terluka kembali. Ia berjalan dengan langkah pelan di antara umat manusia, seakan waktu telah dibuangnya, tak ada lagi, tanpa benam matahari bulan purnama. Ia duduk bersandar (seperti lelah), menyulut sebatang rokok. Pemantik menyala sejenak memperlihatkan pipinya biru ungu, rerumputan tundra di rahang dan dagunya, kerut gelombang laut di dahinya. Helai-helai rambut jatuh di gelombang laut dahinya, bagai layar-layar tipis hitam, ia tanpa angin tanpa kapal tanpa pelabuhan tanpa utara tanpa lentera (seperti lelah, ia ingin menepi). 

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The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera

It was more of a stammer, slowing down the flow of speech, stressing or highlighting every word he uttered whether he wanted to or not. He obviously felt himself doing it, and his cheeks, which had barely regained their natural pallor, turned scarlet again. 

[theturnofthephrases]

The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera

Tomas held the paper out to the secret policeman as if he were afraid to keep it in his hands another second, as if he were worried someone would find his fingerprints on it.

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Pictures of the Ice by Alice Munro, from Friends of My Youth

... he’s very difficult to talk to. He makes all the right noises, he seems so open, but in reality he’s very closed. He’s never been at all a personal kind of person, do you know what I mean? He’s never done anything before for a personal kind of reason. He always did things for somebody. He always liked to find people who needed things done for them, a lot. 

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The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera

That stare bewildered him; he couldn’t understand it ... The stare she had just fixed on him fell outside their rules; it had nothing in common with the looks and gestures that usually proceed their lovemaking. It was neither provocative nor flirtatious, simply interrogative. The problem was, Franz had not the slightest notion what it was asking.