Muere, repelente

Suele ocurrirme tras alguno de mis escarceos amorosos. Me convierto en Nadie. Pierdo rostro, alma, extremidades, voluntad. La energía que normalmente me impulsa decide estancarse y transformarse también, pero ella se transforma en Algo, en Algo Totalmente Horroroso.

Básicamente, mi pecho (el templo de mi alma o mi caja torácica, si preferimos contemplarlo en términos meramente corpóreos) se fractura de un modo salvaje y conocido al que, paradójicamente, no logro acostumbrarme. Tras una serie de intentos de contención, que nunca cesan, la lava volcánica arrasa con todo. Retumban himnos fúnebres como de derrota de guerra que de repente me exigen un llanto viscero-universal por todos y cada uno de los dolores de la raza humana jamás soportados, se suceden vistosos flagelamientos que tienen que demostrar que aquí se está sufriendo, se abren heridas sin cicatrizar que chorrean sangre.

Y luego, como digo, me convierto en Nadie. Cesan los sonidos, los deseos, las preguntas, casi hasta las funciones vitales. Respiro por pura inercia, veo porque mis ojos están abiertos. Soy un testigo totalmente pasivo tanto de lo que ocurre a mi alrededor como de mi propia existencia. Me domina solamente una especie de fuerza oscura y pestilente, una suerte de humo negro que toma forma humana con el único objetivo de trepar por mi espalda e instalarse sobre mis hombros para rodear mi cuello con sus asquerosos brazos y piernas y dedicar todo su empeño a asfixiarme.

Me obliga a caminar por ahí con al mirada clavada en el suelo y un evidente gesto compungido que me resulta muy molesto.

Foolhardy

There is competition in every endevour. Even murder, they say. No reason why love should be any different.

As Cara's face comes up for air from her Sunday special brunch menu, she catches sight of Jen, her little blonde ponytail lively swinging from side to side as she hurries out of the kitchen and right up to serve the way too happy-looking little family in table seven.

Her gaze turns into a straight up leer when the new waitress turns on her heels to head back to get the rest of the table's order, still steaming away on the counter. Cara can now appreciate how the laws of physics operate on Jen's power running figure, face on. Mostly the bouncing bits.

- Hey, Jen - Cara offers as a greeting as the waitress pass their table - How's tricks?

A clearly overwhelmed Jen barely looks at her when she replies with a playful rolling of the greenest eyes this side of the Celadon.

- Buried - she smiles with the corner of her mouth as her side quickly brushed against Cara, not slowing down her power walk to the back of the diner. Cara, still sitting in the booth, has the audacity of conspicously following the dainty blonde with her eyes. Head and upper body turn included.

That does it.

- Seriously, could you be any more obvious? - the dark-haired middle-aged woman sitting opposite to Cara on the booth whispers, leening towards her.

Sarah's voice takes her out of her trance.

- What? A little harmless flirtting never hurt anyone - she protests.

- Oh, please. Even so, you could be her mother.

Cara's eyebrows shoots up into her hairline.

- What's the matter, baby? You jealous? - she teases, with that daring crooked smile of hers.

Shit. Admitting to jealousy in a public place: Sarah's another five points down.

Gulping it down

Holy crap, that phone was on fire.

He kept staring at the picnic-like kitchen table, which was, now that he'd finished his early supper, covered by tiny breadcrumbs, and not knowing what to do.

The generous dish of spaghetti putanesca he had just wolfed down had left the corners of his lips stained by a soft shade of carmine that made him look even a little bit more pathetic. Fortunately though, one could not really appreciate it, because he kept staring really close at the picnic-like kitchen table as if trying hard to burn a hole on its surface big enough for him to jump in and land onto another dimension.

That damn phone was still ringing and he had absolutely no idea what to do with it. 

But ignoring the vibrating insistence that seemed to be being sent from Hell exclusively to emanate from that annoying apparatus did not seem to work as a valid option anymore, so he decided to quit being a pussy and face the situation (literally, as he was forced to slowly lift first his forehead, followed by his eyes, nose, and beardless chin, to be able to spot the artifact in question and then command his brain to reach for it with his right hand). 

He gave out a long heavy sigh that made him feel an eternity older than he was, and pressed the Answer button on the screen.

Two seconds.

-Hello? -stuttered an intense and soft female voice thad had been very close to give up on the waiting and go back her minestrone soup with an all-too-familiar feeling of sour resignation.

Putanesca. Poodle, pepper, ponytail, pitiful, penthouse. 

Long sigh again, this time to conceal the effects his racing heart was starting to have on his breath.

-Hey, hi. 'Sup. -Casual.

Minestrone. Meadows, mimic, masturbation, munchies, minivan.

-Eh, not much. I was realizing one of my wildest Friday night fantasies, that is, slurping my Italian soup in my pyjamas, and I suddenly wondered whether you'd remember the name of that beach bar where we had those mind-blowing nachos last summer? You know, the bar with the hot waitress that you couldn't gather the courage to talk to? Oh God I do remember how embarrassed I was, trying to order all those weird snacks in my awful Spanish.

How an otherwise rather smart attractive woman managed to be such an enormous bitch precisely at the times he was least ready to handle it remained a mystery, even after all those years of twisted friendship. It was like she would do it when you were starting to feel comfortable and felt like you could at last lower your guard. It was like some kind of superpower, which made him hate her, thus want her more. 

Let's go. Pesto, pineapple, penny, poultry, pandemonium. He got it by the balls.

-Hmmm. Oh yeah! Yeah, I know which bar you're talking about, I totally remember the waitress. Jugs like water balloons, sign of the Mediterranean beauty. -"Well it turns out two can play this game, poo face.", he thought, trying to repress a huge grin that was starting to spread on his face.

Oh boy. Motherhood, measles, menace, mesmerize, muppet. The stupid brat knew what her weak link was, had hit home and was well aware of it.

-Well that is both a highly sophisticated and an accurate remark, I gotta say. I'm still looking for the name of the establishment, however, so please save me the rest of the exquisite boob-related comparisons you undoubtedly have in stock for now. -She noticed how her sarcastic comment had accidentally leaked just the right amount of outrage that she was beginning to feel, so she swore to herself once or twice and immediately steered the conversation's wheel to a safer end.- Anyway. Nevermind, I'll Google it.

Just say it woman, say the word.

-Okay, well sorry I wasn't of much help tonight. I was actually falling asleep when you called, so. -You filthy liar.

-Doesn't matter. I'm going to bed too. Good night! -Awesome. One more horny sleepless night to be added to the hardcore porn collection that had been decorating her mind for some time now.

And I say folks, let's all give it up for the era of communication.

Metáfora desubicada

La vida adulta es como una piscina vacía: saltas, emocionada y tras coger carrerilla, desde el trampolín, y aterrizas en el frío hormigón con una soberana hostia que dejará secuelas. Como una futura tendencia sistemática a la precaución en todo lo concerniente a lugares al aire libre con extensos volúmenes de agua, cloro, césped, crema solar o salvavidas.

A mi sobrina no pareció gustarle demasiado esta comparación. Clavó su mirada en mí con gesto socarrón, meneó ese cabezón pelirrojo tan evidentemente desproporcionado en relación con el resto de su minúscula anatomía, y se levantó del banco como un resorte para salir disparada hacia la estructura metálica que alojaba el tobogán.

La vida. La vida una vez pasados los treinta es decididamente como un tobogán.

Damp

It's a tiny room with one of those cream-coloured telephones that once were a common element in every household but are nowadays socially classified as 'vintage'.

I remember how my deceased grandfather used to take what I, even at the age of 7, considered to be a disproportionate amount of pride in having fixed a small lock in the dialling wheel in order to prevent any of his children (but mainly the only female, who hapenned to be my mother) from causing an unaffordable, ergo undesirable, expense.

It's a tiny room, like I say. We can see a thick mist composed by grey fragments that become flexible but seem weak like an old lady's hair lock. It floats in the void forming a sort of (una suerte de) curtain that could anticipate both a thriller or a rather dull stoner's everyday scenario. For the sole reason that we are dreamers we are going to stick to the thriller option, only we are going to be left behind without learning the real end of the story.

Oh, and a typewriter. A red one, sure, but with latin alphabet because I still haven't mastered the required skills to write in the unwelcoming language of the country that has paradoxically insisted to be and remain friends with me since Day 1.

Do I want to make it a whole deal? Well then I just add a gramophone in the picture and I go wild and my body is not that of a man nor a woman no more because all it can do right now and during all the forevers that await those who are patient and sweet is wiggle its hips to the swing, with it, around it, on and on, endlessly enough for an awakened soul to understand.

Really messy hair and the image of our tongues entangled and warm, playful and happy because they let go of the tiresome need to always find the right words and guide them in the right direction.

A bloody ride

So the people were not really used to her strange way of hitch-hiking ("bitch-hiking" as she preferred to call it).

Fuck those losers. As far as she was concerned they could all go and get a life. After all, she would gladly take it from them when the opportunity arose. On the road, on those four wheels that constituted the scenario where she was best at for murdering someone.

It was amusing and thrilling, it was an unprecedented procedure. It would definitely help her get a big name amongst the rest of the white trash she had been forced to cohabitate with since her early childhood years.

Time for revenge. Time for questioning the next douchebag to a slow merciless death somewhere random in the United States of America.

De los huecos del lenguaje

Ocurrió en un fin de semana bello y con luna llena. Se enamoró de sí misma con mayor intensidad de la que conocía hasta entonces y a base de reflejarse y mantener conversaciones de cierta profundidad sustentadas en los tres pilares de toda incipiente madurez: emociones, psicología colectiva y realismo.

Aquel refugio, regalo divino, la ayudó a contemplarse tanto como a mostrarse y a acoger serenamente intensas contribuciones ajenas (a priori raramente deseadas). A ahondar en su cartografía vital actual desde un prisma benévolo, perspectiva que constituía una importante novedad en el petate de su existencia y que, para su gran agrado, ciertamente iba en aumento.

Pero fue, sin duda, esa frase en lengua extraña la que hizo detonar la cadena de pasitos de decidido ciempiés que en un futuro más o menos inmediato la impulsarían al éxito definitivo. "I don't support peniciline" con la mirada relajada sobre el horizonte entre el mar y el cielo. Una nariz chata que se esforzaba realmente por sostener aquellas gafas para las que aún no había decidido adjetivo (¿hipster?), una cabellera leonina que acusaba pinceladas de experiencia y unos labios carnosos que padecían un sentido de la culpabilidad mucho más intenso de lo que le habría gustado percibir. La extranjera había pronunciado aquellas palabras, perdida por completo en su propia argumentación, y para ella había sido el fin inmediato de su papel de dedicada interlocutora.

Se fascinó ciegamente ante tal traducción. La francesa, la francesa contra la penicilina y no alérgica a ella. La francesa en contra de la curación de millones de infecciones bacteriológicas por medio del antibiótico que revolucionó al mundo.

No sabía la razón exacta, pero decidió conservar aquel uso fallido de la lengua común para mantener aquella díscola imagen en su fuero interno.

Somos luz

Me habla suavecito, con ese acento suyo andaluz, ya no sé ni de donde, con esas eses... Y a mi se me va la cabeza, viajo a esas tierras lejanas a las que no había vuelto desde adolescente. Y ya no puedo, hasta me sale el francés, del que no entiende ni palabra ni media, y le digo, casi susurrando:

- Non, mais il va falloir que tu t'arrêtes avec cet accent charmant a toi...-hago una pausa, acercando mi mano derecha a su mejilla- Sinon je veux devoir continuer a te parler en français, comme ça tout doucement jusqu'à que tu sens la même faiblesse aux genoux que je sens a chaque fois que ton petit accent du sud sort de ta bouche...

Me doy cuenta de que he tardado una eternidad en pronunciar la palabra bouche y que ha terminado en suspiro y más por instinto que por elección consciente, mis dedos acarician su mentón, parándose justo antes de su labio inferior, recordando súbitamente su timidez. 

Wolfgang

The kettle had just finished boiling. He got up from the corner couch and walked to the kitchen to make his tea.

A milisecond before the cup touched his lips, which had been smiling in anticipation of this small pleasure, a massive explosion erupted from the other side of the living room, destroying half the kitchen as well.

The second-degree burns from the boiling hot tea all over his face began healing immediately. But still the anger he felt regarding the destruction of his brand new condo all grew into full-on rage when he realized the mug which had been broken into a million pieces, of which only remained the handle still in his right hand, had been a gift from Molly.

Wolfgang growled, teeth baring and that huge vein of his popping maddly in his forehead.

Captain Petty, in full kevlar suit and assault rifle in hand materialised himself through the five by five whole on Wolfgang's living room, trembling from head to toe.

- Mr. K, Kaser... - Capitan Petty managed to babble out.

- Paul -growled Wolfgang, squinting his eyes from pure rage, clenched yaw-, that is not OK. Not OK at all.

De amor y agua fresca

- Sí, reciente. Hace un mes y medio - ofrece Margaux, con ojos vidriosos.
- ...y dieciocho días, casi dos - añade Éric, pasteloso.

Traducción: follamos como conejos. Estupendo, piensas, viva el pudor. Te preguntas si serán conscientes de que están invitando a todos sus amigos a imaginárselos en pleno chimpampún. Arreando.

Durante un mili-segundo, una parte de ti se avergüenza un poco de tu cinismo. Tú, que nunca has sido una persona propensa a la envidia, una pizca de odio malsano te corroe las venas cuando apuestas mentalmente contigo mismo. Seis meses, les das seis meses.

Ciento ochenta días de mete y saca constante. Si cuentas los polvos que habrás echado en los últimos seis años, con suerte empatáis. Mejor pensado, tres. Tres meses y van que chutan, no les das ni un día más.

Tú puede que no mojes el churro lo que solías, por no decir nunca, pero tampoco es para que este par de tortolitos de mierda te lo restrieguen por toda la jeta.

Ella le acaricia la nuca cuando el tono burlón de la conversación recae sobre la última patochada del berzas de Éric.

Vomitarías el aperitivo sobre tu plato. Estaría más que justificado, te dices. Las mini quiches -congeladas, te juegas el cuello-, estaban rancias, de todas formas.

Tu mirada viaja de la sonrisa bobalicona de él a los ojitos de embobada de ella. Por mucho que intentes no juzgar, ella da la impresión de ser una cabeza hueca. Con su deje infantiloide y un marcado carácter difícil que se deja entrever cuando Éric se atreve a respirar demasiado fuerte.

En el camino tus ojos se cruzan con los de tu parienta, que no ha perdido ni ripio de tu lucha interior.

- Pero bueno, entonces es algo serio, ¿no? Quiero decir, conociéndote, Margaux... Estás batiendo récords - pincha ella, sonrisa socarrona dibujada en su cara. Esa es mi chica, dales bien.

Éric se chapuza en su móvil, haciéndose el longuis. Cualquiera diría que Margaux va a infartar, le sale humo de las orejas.

Después de diez interminables segundos de balbuceos, Margaux opta por una de sus risitas incómodas, obligándote a apurar tu cuarta copa de vino y a servirte una más que generosa quinta.

Ésta no es más tonta porque no se entrena.

A pesar de

Y porque parece ser que no puedo obviarte, este pseudosalto al vacío, que creo haber perpetrado a mi propia cuenta y riesgo, se carcajea recurrentemente en mi cara cada vez que se le antoja resaltar tu juventud.

Que lo que he topado en ti me desborda, que me ha acabado vendando los ojos para hacerme ver tonterías con todo lujo de detalles. Que el sabio Heráclito se regocijaría con nuestra relación, pues no existe un extremo sin la existencia de su opuesto, y de ello es viva prueba el sinvivir que acuso por ti.

Pero el sabio adorado decidió huir al monte y llevarse con él su desprecio por la raza humana, cuando yo lo que verdaderamente anhelo es fundirme contigo y que ni una atrevida brisa encuentre el espacio por el que colarse entre nosotros. Deseo devorarte, como hizo cierto dios del Olimpo (¿Zeus? ¿Urano?) con sus hijos.

Sufro un ávido apetito de tú, que me consume a todas luces y a diario, si bien también nocturnamente. Mi físico arde a fuego lento, que es el fuego que más cre(m)a, en términos de largo plazo, y últimamente me sorprende con instantes de grito ahogado en los que muere de pasmo, placer y nube.

Todo es cíclico.

Una mofa.

Acércame el disfraz de payasa.

Doble tirabuzón hacia delante, con penetración (no doble -aún no estamos en ese punto).

Necesito masticarte la cara, duende mío. Y observar tus hazañas. Ríndete, ríndete ya.

Blank and full

Let me say I just feel blank.

Only a piercing headache seems to be persistent enough to persuade me of the fact that I still got some sort of life inside of me. The quality of fluffy, and simultaneously blunt, of everything around me, has skyrocketed to a point that I’ve settled to think of as bittersweet aloofness for the time being.

Detachment has won me over without much resistance on my part. All is a circle.

I would dare to claim that, by now, I have safely developed the ethyl ability of allowing certain substances work their magic into my organism in the way a creek penetrates the soil and reaches the depths, the roots of the trunk, for nurturing purposes. In a smooth and loving fashion, knowing exactly what to do.

Which reminds me I recently came across a poetic passage that asserted that the best way of showing your fondness for someone consists of finding the cracks in their souls and then pouring your love in them. It appears to come in as a handy comparison.

Moist as I might feel on the inside, my outside skin is determined to act waterproof. Oh it has cracks alright, but it shows no intention of welcoming strange elements that entail the risk of bringing back to life familiar wounds. It would rather cannibalize itself until the moment comes.

We are in blossoming terms with each other.