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.

Responsible

So you never asked to be born. So inertia and a worrying mother pushed you to grow up and become one of those.

One of Them. An adult. An independent full-grown human being in charge of their own actions. Having no-one to rely on except yourself. Do not panic.

This is not that different from all your unasked time on this life. You spent your younger years learning a bunch of tricks so One of Them can deem you worthy enough to get a spot into a special Training Box. A few years after that you came out of that Box, with a shiny piece of paper stating your value as a human being so far goes up to here. You might even get a number to go with that.

Once you are out of the Special Training Box, you are suddenly One of Them. With no more training than that, you will be told you need to argue your value, based on the number -or not- that you were awarded on your Special Training Box.

Now. Focus. All of your unrequested time on this Earth has been leading to this Step. The rest of your unsolicited existence will depend on your ability to talk another One of Them into giving you another Number. Remember now, this Number is the single most important number you will obsess with for as long as you draw breath. Not only for Survival, but for Love and, most important of all, Things.

This is the Number you will get every few days in exchange for coming into a certain place, almost every day, and -this is important now-, staying inside performing a series of nerve-wrecking tasks, on which you will constantly be judged.

You might want to find yourself a Box that asks you to do enjoyable tasks in exchange for this Most Important Number. If you are lucky, you can trick One of Them into thinking you will help them make a larger Number for themselves and will so let you join their Box, and set to do that more enjoyable set of tasks.

Most probably, even if you get into that Box, any set of tasks you expected to be more enjoyable will end up not being so. At this point, Things, Survival and, if you are really lucky, Love, will make it so you feel obligated to keep coming into this Box almost every day.

For if you stop performing your assigned tasks, or doing so to the liking of the bigger One of Them directly behind you, or, even worse, decide you would really like to just stop coming to the Box every morning..., you stand to lose having Things, you risk kissing goodbye the Love you found and earned. You may even fear for your Survival.

So nobody asked you if you wanted to come into this world. So nobody handed you an instruction manual for your life.

You do have a choice. So choose:
If you are inexplicably feeling somewhat cheerful after reading this Life Recap, I believe OPTION A would be best for you.
Otherwise, kindly follow me to OPTION B.

--------------------------------------------------------

OPTION A/ When All of Them asks you, and, believe me, they will, whether you want to bring another Soul that never asked a thing into this life, you can tell them: "I would never do that to another Human Being".

OPTION B/ The only single real one you ever had: take a leap. You are free to climb up to the top of your Box and jump into Freedom.

Pasivo-agresivo

Soy un tipo colérico, no tengo miedo a admitirlo. Siempre lo he sido. ¡Pero es que cualquiera diría que la gente es gilipollas a propósito, joder! Hoy mismo sin ir más lejos, pues no va el capullo integral de mi jefe y me dice, no me pide, lo afirma como buen patrón auto-insuficiente que es, que le haga la declaración de la renta y que la termine para ayer.

Ni que fuera su puta secretaria. ¿Me has visto venir en faldita a la oficina acaso, pobre imbécil? Si me delega su más mínima -y la no tanto-, tarea personal es porque no tiene ni la más pajolera idea de dónde empezar. Es lo que tiene ser un inútil integral, que uno se acostumbra y al cabo de un tiempo no sabes ni atarte los cordones de los zapatos sin asistencia.

Pues mira que yo no me corto. Por no lanzarle a la cara su manojo de papelotes, atados a un ladrillo de preferencia, trago mi ira una última vez y me resigno a pasar la noche delante de la página de la Agencia Tributaria.

Vamos a ver quién ríe cuando se planten los azules por fraude. Y que pierdan la llave.

Al filo

Ha vuelto. Y con fuego en el cabello, ha vuelto. Mierda. No sé dónde meterme, por eso en cuestión de segundos me transformo en un sujeto de dientes repiqueteantes, intensos calambres estomacales y piedras en la garganta que ansía marcharse corriendo, pero que solo es capaz de quedarse con las suelas ancladas al sueño. Al suelo. Ella, ajena a mi pánico -o eso hace ver-, por diosa, por vieja alma, por huracán y porque juega con ventaja y lo sabe, saluda al resto de mis acompañantes como si no le fuera la vida en ello. Ha pasado unos meses fuera del país. Ha estado viviendo mundo, ha vuelto con la mochila un poco más llena y la piel un poco más bronceada y más dura. Ha vuelto para quedarse y lo proclama a los cuatro vientos. Y yo aquí, y yo con estos pelos. Soy extremadamente consciente de que esa mujer soy yo, mi entidad masculina, en un cuerpo de hembra. Ambos lo hemos aceptado hasta el punto de que evitar a toda costa el contacto visual o epidérmico a cualquier nivel se ha establecido ya como la única barrera, absolutamente indispensable, que evitará la expansión de un incendio que prevemos de dimensiones espectaculares. Y es que, cuando dos seres así llegan a unirse, aunque sea por un segundo, los cimientos del mundo se tambalean y las consecuencias son sin precedentes. Y tal prohibición, consensuada no más que en secreto, aumenta exponencialmente el deseo, es evidente. Las oscuras miradas furtivas se van abriendo paso más punzantes, peligrosas. Los contoneos de la anatomía se dirigen hacia el cazador, que es a su vez la presa, para trasladar el aroma de una posible victoria mutua, de ese proyectado encuentro. Hablo de la fragancia mortal y cálida de la sangre a borbotones que satisfará la avidez y acallará los suspiros (al menos, temporalmente). Somos panteras gemelas que estudian sibilinamente a su festín. Las dos viéndose ganadoras y sin embargo las dos vulnerables porque lo dan todo en todo y lo toman a dentelladas. Nadie puede asegurarles que no vayan a salir desgarradas, si bien ese sería un placer que merecería la pena. Lo saben y lo evitan. En las distancias cortas es donde este juego se revela especialmente arriesgado. Sin trampa ni cartón, a base de ataques certeros, continuaremos tanteando al amante-rival hasta que el cuerpo o la cabeza aguante. Como dos animales que experimentan la lucidez de la que les dota el apetito voraz, el resultado deberá ser trágico pero acertado.

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.