A lot can happen between now and never

All week I was convinced she'd discovered something terrible about me and changed her mind about me. She had been so friendly up until here. And I liked her. Had I not already met my mate, she would without a doubt be a mistake I would've gladly committed.

The rest of the office seemed to have caught on. Obviously she had told them about me and now they all hated me too. 

The manager was talking to the floor's assistant. I wasn't eavesdropping for once, I had some actual work to do. But my subconscious launched a second process to listen in when Emily's name was spoken.

"No, she just lost someone". About three seconds later the listening in process took over my answering e-mails one so I could decipher that she had, in fact, not misplaced another human being but that rather a person close to her had recently died. 

So that is why. She wasn't mad at me or disgusted by my lack of manners or alternative lifestyle. The rest of my colleagues probably still liked me okay enough. It wasn't distance I had felt, only grief.

Non sequiturs

You like keeping to yourself. I keep my ear to the ground, become a lip-reader when needed. Any time I feel invited to intrude in your theatrical flings, that is.

And so we made eye contact for the umpteenth time and telepathically set the date for the jump. Come the day, I don't show up and you don't even mention it the next day. Who the hell is flying this plane, anyway?

But then again, how can I know that you did go? Maybe we are, after all, one mind and none of us was sitting on that bench last Saturday.

You can argue and throw at me that my inactions may be construed as devious. Such a pretty thesaurus you are too.

Deviant, I am, nonetheless. I'll give you that. And, frankly, I'd give you more if you'd just ask. So ask me. You know I can't think for myself. My head is full and filled with empty facts and useless guesses. I could tell you balsa wood is lighter than cork and blood runs thicker than water. Bullshit will continue to run thicker still anyhow. And it's not like I can't wait to carry water for you now that you're pretending you never told me to do such a thing.

Still you sink to my level and look the other way. You don't answer me, so I have to assume I'm the bad guy in all this. Alright then, you're the angel, I stood you up. No need to ask.

Carry the water I will.

El precio de nuestra oscuridad

Y tú, ¿qué has venido a hacer a mi oscuridad?

"Desnudarme", me dices. Te abres paso a empeñones y no nos queda más remedio que empezar a usar Segundos como moneda, para intentar cubrir una necesidad inventada de compensar y balancearlo todo. Pronto necesitamos de Minutos, y antes de darnos cuenta echamos mano de Horas para pagar cualquier gasto menor.

Los Soles se devalúan rápidamente, pero las Lunas jamás perderán un ápice de su valor. Siempre han sido algo escaso y preciado, hermoso, casi sagrado. Codiciado por muchos, merecido por pocos.

Con quién habrás gastado tus Lunas, no lo sé. Quizá no quiera saberlo. Me parecería excesivo, una barbaridad, que se las hubieras dado a cualquiera. Es más, ni siquiera estoy segura de ser merecedora de ninguna de tus Lunas. Al menos no enteras, quizá esté en mi crédito aspirar a algún pedacito. No aprobaría que las gastaras en mí, aunque, no puedo negarlo, es cuanto anhelo.

Moment de feblesa

Tan sols un somni i me'n adono que el que creia que havia deixat de sentir segueix aquí, resistint-se a anar-se'n del tot. Només un somni per a disparar aquesta única càlida memòria que vam compartir directament al meu lòbul principal. I volta a començar.

Caic en el compte de lo guapa que estàs avui. Precisament avui. No són imaginacions meves, has vingut amb roba de carrer i t'has soltat el cabell. Si no et conegués millor i sabés que no creus en aquestes coses, pensaria que t'has colat en els meus somnis de forma expressa a través d'algun tipus de vudú.

Somrius i se'm ve el món al damunt. Els teus ulls semblen més foscos que mai amb el reflex del teu somriure. Miro incrèdula al meu voltant, sense entendre què és tan important per a la resta dels presents que no t'estan mirant amb l'atenció que requereixes.

Amb només una paraula, si la diguessis en el segon exacte en que estic sofrint aquesta explosió de sentiments no tan oposats, seria teva per tota l'eternitat.

Una sola mirada de desdeny i tot s'esfuma. Menys mal.

Three worded story

I've always loved this game. We have played it since I can remember, and it goes like this: every player, in order, adds three words following whichever ones the previous player said. It is not required that it has any sense at all, it can be nonsense, utterly silly or ridiculous. Stops don't count as a separate word and you can insert all the punctuation you think you need at any moment.

I've always preferred the two-people version of the game: it's more intimate and much less chaotic and irritating. And I've also always preferred to play this version with a very particular second person.

We used to play it in two forms: one in which we kept written record and another one in which we didn't. The latter was the silliest, craziest and therefore funniest one. As we obviously could otherwise not remember the rest of the story, we had to repeat the whole thing at each turn, adding our three new words at the end. Which made it even more nonsensical, and meant that by the time we were around the fifth round we'd start forgetting half of the words and the story would get even more senseless.

As we grew older, many of these became erotic stories. And, soon enough, unless we were high on something or feeling particularly absurd, all of them were erotic stories in the end.

Throughout the years we have managed to create quite a collection of stories. I actually keep a cardboard box with all of our written ones in it. It's filled with all kinds of pieces of paper; from regular sheets to toilet paper, all the way up to napkins, tissues and even the back of a notebook cover. I put on top one of my favorite ones in the absurd category, the one that started with "I eat crayons". An absolut classic.

But there's one I'll never forget. We were just hanging out as usual, bored out of our minds, I thought. Until I noticed her hard expression, and so I suggested we played "story" -that's how we called it, to ease her mind and three-word her troubles away. She agreed, quickly adding she'd be the one to start.

I didn't even see it coming. She opened her mouth and the three words came out. No, not those three words. She wasn't going to say she loved me, I already knew she did. When you know someone for that long, you know you love each other. It's implied in the relationship. It doesn't matter whether it's an as-a-friend, a like-a-sister or a more-than-that love. Love's just love. Feelings, states of mind. It comes, it goes, changes, stays the same or for good. It can be more or less deep, stable or lasting, but by telling someone you love them you're not admitting anything they already don't know or suspect. You're just putting it into words, merely expressing it.

The three-worded story she began that day for the both of us started with even bigger words: "I need you". The three words that can move land, sea and air. We rarely say them, yet we wear them all the time, engraved in the back of our skin.

Even if we can't admit it, we hate to feel alone. And yet we do, every second of every day. Because we are, in fact, alone. So very alone. Life is really fucking lonely. And that's that.

But that day she offered all of her vulnerably beautiful self to me. Just like that. And with those three words she gave me, I made the next move to writing a whole new story, for the both of us: "I do too".

It's all in the details

There's certain things she won't ever know. Like how much I really know about her, how much I could guess about who she really is. She doesn't know because she didn't tell me. She didn't confess anything in her sleep either. She just didn't tell me with her words. She told me with her mouth, her gestures and maneurisms, her walking, her stretching, the way she rips open café sugar envelopes and pours the sugar into her café coffee, the way she does it with spoonfuls of home sugar into her home coffee. I could glimpse the extent of her braveness by the way she accommodates in her seat.

It's the little things that define us. The way we rip open café sugar envelopes says so much about us, who we are, our wishes and hopes. The way we play with it afterwards or let it be by the cup's side sets us apart. It marks us different.

I could tell your eagerness by just observing the way you licked your lips. And if I get a glimpse of your hands... Your hands. I could see into the depth of your soul by looking at your hands.

Natura fràgil

- Sóc de estómac fràgil -li deia-, i és per això que he de racionar de bon tros cuidat l'alcohol si vull que el meu cos ho accepti i m'arribi a embriagar realment.

Va somriure amb un somrís picardiós, mitjà sorneguer.

- Que t'estàs rient de mí? -vaig preguntar-li, una mica molesta.

- No, dona. És clar que no. Només estava pensant que el que ets és de emoció fràgil... bo, de natura fràgil millor dit, i per això tens que escogir de bon tros cuidat a qui deixas entrar al teu cor, i fins on -va respondre'm, amb aquella mirada de tendresa que se li posava de vegades, mitjà condescendent mitjà protectora.

Por un momento

Es como un flash. Lo consideras como una posibilidad real, por un segundo, y te atraviesa. La sensación comienza en el estómago, que es donde solemos situar los dolores no demasiado concretos. El estómago es a la frontera entre cuerpo y sentimiento lo que el pollo es al sabor. Todo lo que no tiene un sabor demasiado definido sabe a pollo. Este vértigo indeterminado empieza en el estómago.

Sabes que no hay nada físico ahí, pero por un instante tu cerebro le dice a tu consciencia que te has tragado una mariposa con las alas intactas. Se le han quedado pegadas a las paredes de una parte de tu aparato digestivo, y encima te resulta emocionante y violentamente agradable, a la par que extraño.

Si sigues pensándolo, te mareas. Una impresión de hundimiento o elevación, o todo al tiempo, te envuelve. La sangre sube a tus mejillas y te llena un principio de sofoco; corto, pero intenso. En tu cabeza resuena un zumbido, que se mantiene momentáneamente para desvanecerse secretamente.

Te invade.

Y si lo racionalizas...