Gracias

"Gracias a todos aquellos que decidieron compartir un segundo de su tiempo conmigo, no hay regalo más valioso," sincero, al cielo.

"Y, ¿ahora qué?" Perplejo.

"¿Ahora? No sé... Dímelo tú... ¿Descansar, quizás?"

"Quizá..."

Mundos ideales

En un mundo ideal.

Sus ojos pardos me miran, me ven, me desnudan.
Disimulo mi arrobamiento, me escondo.
Encojo los dedos de mis pies,
en un intento desesperado por aliviar tensiones.
Me acaricio la oreja derecha con la mano izquierda, torpemente.
Muerdo.
Huyo.

Su generosa cabellera castaña disfraza sus hombros de gala.
Mariposas.
Bajo la cabeza, ignorante,
mientras se recoge el cabello con una goma verde.
Sus movimientos son suaves.
Escalofrío.
Esperanza.

Estira su cuello para reír.
Sonrisa blanca, embriagadora.
Su piel es morena, suave.
Me imagino frágil, sutil, ligero.
Me abraza en mi cabeza.
Iluso.
Me paraliza.

Sus osados labios carmesí me besan en la distancia.
Cierro los ojos, embriagado.
Atezada oscuridad.
Restos de comida en su labio inferior.
Naranja.
Mordisco.
Espejismo.

Bajo un techo celeste manchado de algodones albinos.
Descalzos sobre un suelo esmeralda y húmedo,
salpicado de ambarinos, violáceos, níveos, colorados, azures.

Ella.
Construyo castillos de naipes.
Céfiro.

Sólo entonces dejo de escribir.
Miedo.
Sólo entonces despierto.
Suspiro.
Sólo entonces me doy cuenta de que los mundos ideales,
son en blanco y negro.

Sueños breves

1

No alcanzo a ver donde empieza, donde acaba. Se abre, sugerente. En su interior oscuridad seductora. Grita mi nombre en silencio. Se cierra y yo sigo fuera, cobarde. Agacho la cabeza, aprieto mis puños, lloro, suplico y lamento no haber entrado. Se abre de nuevo. Quiero entrar pero no me muevo. Quiero entrar pero no me muevo. Quiero entrar pero no me muevo. La puerta se cierra y, probablemente, nunca más vuelva a abrirse.

22

Silence.

"I'm sorry," my voice.

Silence.

"Don't worry," thousands of voices from everywhere.

Echo... Echo... Echo...

333

Me veo. Estoy durminedo. No estoy solo. ¿Quién es ella? No la conozco. Le cambio el rostro. Abro lo ojos. La ignoro. Me levanto. Estoy frente a mí. Caigo en un precipicio. Me ofrece su mano. La cojo. Sigo sin conocerla. No tiene rostro... Es quien quiera que sea. Cubo de Rubik. Su rostro cambia. La reconozco. Ruleta rusa. Disparo. Sólo entonces dejo que me salve. Dejo de verme. Abor los ojos. Miro a mi lado. Vacío.

Instantes

1

Planta 5. Él entra en el ascensor.
Planta 4. Ella entra en el ascensor.
Planta 3. Se reconocen, se sonríen, se saludan con la cabeza.
Planta 2. Han coincidido antes en clase, en un bar, en un concierto, en un supermecado...
Planta 1. Ella abandona el ascensor sin decir nada.
Planta 0. Él abandona el ascensor.

...en un supermercado, en un ascensor...

22

"¡Javier!" llorando de alegría mientras abraza a Javier con locura. "Pero, ¿cómo? ¡Gracias a Dios! ¡Estás vivo!"

"Me quedé dormido, perdí mi avión," contrariado por el estado de su madre. "¿Qué te pasa?"

"Lo vi en las noticias... Tu avión... Un accidente..." Besando una y otra vez el rostro de Javier.

"¿¡Cómo!?" exaltado. "Voy a llamar a Lucía, seguro que ella también ha visto las noticias..."

Unas horas antes:

"Lucía, ¿estás segura de lo que vas a hacer?"

"Sí, me acaban de decir que hay una plaza para mí, y por primera vez en mi vida estoy enamorada," sonriendo. "Tendrías que haber visto la cara de Javier ayer cuando se despidió de mí..."

333

"I love you," he says.

"Are you sure?" she asks.

"No" he answers. "But if I'm not, why can't I stop thinking about you?"

"I don't think she's gonna understand this, she's my friend..." Looking down.

"I'm not doing this because of you..."

4444

"Do you like ants? Stop playing with them and go..."

"Where? We're fine here. It's not dinner time yet and I love being in the beach when the night falls..."

"Are you gonna hit on those German girls tonight?"

"Can't you think about something else?" He stares at an ant that is walking on the palm of his hand. "Maybe..."

"If you eat it I pay you a drink tonight..."

"Ok, let's go," he leaks his hand, stands up, starts walking. "You owe me a drink..."

55555

He thrown the knife away and only then realized. He fell in front of him. Blood in his hand. A dead body laying on the floor. Inhale. Exhale. Choke.

"It was him or me, it was him or me, it was him or me, it was him or me, it was him or me..." He could listen to his beats. Silence. Beat. Breath.

Cold. Low back pain. White. Her smell. Her voice. Her taste. Her skin. Her eyes. Sorrow. Red. Black. Down.

"It is me."

Love happens (all the time)

...or never...

Breathing together.

"I love you," he whispered in her ear.

His voice, gentle, calm, released. In love.

Daylight. The Sun rising, shining through the window.

They were embracing each other, half naked, among the bright white sheets. Rosy her. Tanned him.

She kissed his chest, his neck, his cheek.

Silence.

*****

Claire was Irish. She had moved to New York from Dublin after finishing a Master's in Business and Administration and getting a job as a business development manager in an Irish firm that had just opened an office in Manhattan.

Fausto was born in Italy. He had lived in New York since he was twelve years old. His mother moved back to the States after she got divorced from his father. He survived working as a cook in three different restaurants in Manhattan, Bronx and Brooklyn where he lived with his mother and grandmother.

They met in a party thrown by a mutual friend. One of Claire's firm clients, one of Fausto's bosses. She liked him, his eyes, his smile, his awkwardness. He liked her, her cheeks, her hair, her shyness. They talked briefly about each other's life.

Claire accepted Lisa's invitation for dinner after work. They went to a fancy restaurant in Manhattan. The food was excellent. Butterflies. They talked about the firm, Ireland, Manhattan, men, interior design, politics, music, lingerie, chocolate... They saw each other. He was leaving the restaurant after a long shift. She waved and invited him to have a seat with them, offer that he could not refuse. He delighted them with his food, feet and history knowledge. Around midnight they left. Lisa got a cab and Fausto walked with Claire to her place which was nearby. Cool fall night. He left her at the door.

She was still at work, he thought. He went to her apartment building and left a message and a white rose for her at the porter's lodge: Can I cook for you?

She put the rose in water. Sight. She did not know how to contact him other than at the restaurant where they had met but she did not want to do that.

When she got back from work he was there, waiting for her in the street, surrounded by a bunch of paper bags from the grocery store. She smiled, her lips did, her heart did. So, can I cook for you?

*****

"I've said I love you," whispering in her ear.

"I'm sorry," a tear in her eye, her cheek, her chin, a tear that drowned his heart.

"When?" He mumbled.

"I don't know how it happened, it just did," crying. "I'm really sorry Fausto..."

Silence.

Before he left he said he would be back to pick up his stuff. He never went back...

*****

Fausto and Marie met in a concert in Boston. Fausto and Marie fell in love one starry night on a bridge. Fausto and Marie moved together to a little apartment in Dorchester.

Marie taught French in an elementary school Downtown. Fausto found a job as a cook in a restaurant in Cambridge. They were happy. Rainbow. Settled down.

*****

Fausto liked to walk alone at night before falling sleep in Marie's arms. He used to go to a park nearby where he would sit on a bench and smoke a cigarette. Inhale. Exhale. The park was always almost empty. Sometimes he would enjoy the love of a couple laying on the wet grass, the fate of a homeless looking for shelter, the patience of a dog taking out its owner.

He sat and smoked. He thought about his day, he thought about his mother, his grandmother, Italy, a father he barely knew. She sat and smoked. Michelle sat in a bench seventeen yards away from the one Fausto was on. How long is seventeen yards?

Fausto looked at Michelle while she was looking away. Michelle looked at Fausto while he was looking away. One day after another until...

Fausto looked for Michelle's blue eyes. Michelle looked for Fausto's brown eyes. They politely waved at each other. One day after another until...

Fausto walked to Michelle's bench and asked her for fire. He walked back to his bench and smoked. She looked at him walking away slowly. One day after another until...

Fausto walked to Michelle's bench and sat with her. They smoked together, in silence. One day after another until...

The closer he was to Michelle the further he was from his day by day life next to Marie.

*****

"I love you," she whispered in his ear.

Fear.

"What's wrong?" she added.

"I can't Marie. I love you but I can't. Something is missing. I don't know what to say. I'm really sorry," he looked down, she closed her eyes and did not want to open them again.

His stomach jumped into the void. At that precise moment he felt deeply sorry about Marie, sorry about Claire. His heart collapsed into tears. Why?

*****

"Claire?" he asked.

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Countdown

Abres los ojos cuando Morfeo todavía reina. Huyes de su reino de fantasía. Sudas, siempre lo haces. Miras a tu alrededor y no ves sino oscuridad. Sombras. Te incorporas y descubres a alguien a tu lado, alguien que te observa atentamente con los ojos cerrados mientras descansa. Tu soledad. Siempre. Desayunas. Fractales de leche con cacao. Te lavas la cara abundantemente. Frío. Pedaleas. Maldices la suerte de un conocido que ya no lo hará más. Pedaleas. Llegas a tu oficina. Solitaria, oscura, vacía. Un paraíso efímero, intermitente, evanescente. Trabajas intensamente durante seis horas. Propuesta. Teléfono. Propuesta. Artículo. Página Web. Correo eléctrónico. Propuesta. Correo electrónico. Anhelas el silencio salado, la brisa marina, tu piel erizada, una supernova en tu retina, tus pies desapareciendo en la arena, el ir y venir de las olas. Sólo entonces te das cuenta de lo lejos que estás de ti mismo. Miras a tu conciencia a los ojos. Sonríes. Almuerzas. Caes al suelo y miras al cielo. Te duelen. Las yemas de los dedos, las palmas de las manos, antebrazos, brazos, hombros. Cierras los ojos y te imaginas escalando al aire libre. Te gusta llegar a casa cuando todavía no ha oscurecido. Llamas a tus padres, a tu hermana, a tu abuela. Lo haces de vez en cuando. No te gusta hablar por hablar. Comunicar. Mantienes una conversación con tu familia virtual a siete mil kilómetros de distancia. Tan lejos, tan cerca. Cenas fuera. El diseño quema en tu bolsillo. Entre las páginas nostálgicas de la libreta roja que alguien te regaló. Con el estómago lleno. Mil ciento treinta y siete días después le muestras el dibujo a un desconocido. Treinta y dos minutos después ya no eres la misma persona. Eres un poco más... Tú. Un pastel con forma de tortuga. Te acuestas y sólo entonces eres consciente de que tu documento nacional de identidad te sitúa por vez primera más cerca de cumplir treinta que de haber cumplido veinte. ¿Treinta qué? ¿Veinte qué? Sonríes. Eres j*&^%$mente feliz. El mundo cree saber quien eres, de donde vienes, a donde vas. No tienen ni idea. Tú todavía te sientes como un niño... y te gusta. Vives. Una tortuga asciende por la parte posterior tu pierna derecha...

You open the eyes while Morfeo is still reigning. You get away from his fantasy kingdom. You sweat, you always do. You look around and see nothing but darkness. Shadows. You wake up and see someone next to you, someone who looks at you faithfully while rests. Your loneliness. Forever. You have breakfast. Fractals made out of cocoa and milk. You wash your face energeticly. Cold. You ride your bike. You curse the luck of a colleague that will not do it again. You ride your bike. You arrive to your office. Lonely, dark, empty. A paradise, ephimeral, intermittent, vanishing. You work without stopping for six long hours. Porposal. Telephone. Proposal. Paper. Web page. Electronic mail. Proposal. Electronic mail. You yearn for the salty silence, the sea breeze, having goose pimples, a supernova in your retina, your feet disappearing under the sand, the swinging of the waves. Only then you realize how far away you are from yourself. You look your conscience in the eyes. You smile. You have lunch. You fall and look at the sky. They hurt. Your fingertips, your palms, forearms, shoulders, chest. You close your eyes and imagine yourself climbing outdoors. You like to get home before it is dark. You call your parents, your sister, your grandma. You do it every now and then. You do not always like to talk for talk's sake. Communication. You talk with your virtual family seven thousand kilometers away. So far, so close. You have dinner out. The design burns in your pocket. Among the nostalgic pages of the red notebook that someone gave to you. With your stomach full. After one thousand and thirty seven days you finally show the drawing to a stranger. Thirty two minutes later you are not the same anymore. You are a little bit more... Yourself. A cake with the shape of a turtle. You go to bed and only then you are aware that your ID put yourself for the first time closer to turn thirty than to have turned twenty. ¿Twenty what? ¿Thirty what? You smile. You are f*&^%$#ly happy. The world thinks it knows who you are, where you come from, where you go. It has no idea. You still feel like a kid... and you love it. Alive. A turtle is climbing in the back of your right leg...