Tres minutos (5) English

24 de agosto de 2015

On another note, I decided to be practical with the pain. Imagining you pregnant made me think of shark eggs. Those stretched, armored little sacks that the sea dispersed across the shore. You had lost your leather jacket on our first night. You arrived with your forehead full of freckles, and I understood that your face had two transcendental seconds. The face of Rachel Weisz had six, and Marilyn Monroe only one. I was intrigued by your raspy voice. One word after another and the breath that went unwinding like a reel. I had a phase of migraines. The Peruvian girl from Doctors Without Borders asked me about the little dots next to my eyes. She told me they’re beautiful, like tattoos. I told her they’re petechiae. I told her they’re broken capillaries from so much vomiting. You always constructed the funniest facial expressions. Now your mouth had the shape of a badly finished letter, perhaps two letters (one definitely horizontal). That night, before leaving home, a potato chip fell into the bathtub and its industrial disguise began to dissolve. It was a really painful process to watch. We had good days. Nights that felt like the reuniting of nations. I said it was a time stolen from our lives. We raced up the stairs and, sitting on my sofa, we got away from the city. It was you and me, a taut abdomen like the loin of a fish, kisses so deep that they grazed our throats. Sometimes we felt attacked by a strange childish hiccup. I thrust inside of you like an impatient hitchhiker. Ours was always triumph without attempts, K. In the mornings, I almost didn’t have reflexes. The city didn’t, either. Both of us so fast asleep that the mouths of the buses got too close to the people. My loved ones never brought up the subject. Instead of asking me about my feelings, they talked about my beard. As a little girl you’d scratched your forehead. You had scars like absences. You’d torn out microscopic garbanzo beans and its shards of light distracted me. Some men and women (in their writing) were more of architects than I, more structured. I worked groping like a clumsy sculptor. I often confused the order of things and the subsequent blur made me narrate the reality like a journalism of the soul. During all those days it was impossible for us to forget the existence of the other one, of the third one, of HIM. You didn’t even want to utter his name. During our time together I only conversed with the part of you that loved me. The other half was barely expressed, limited to looking at me with glazed eyes. One afternoon we unwittingly turned into ice cream aficionados. One night we collected beads of blood at the base of my penis. At the zenith of our relationship we laid down under the Bridge of Segovia without being able to make out the sky. We looked beyond the armed cement believing ourselves capable of contemplating the final and definitive three dimensional leak. One good morning we hugged each other. I got on my feet and spotted you sleeping: the wall divided in vertical stripes, your hands on your chest as if not living. Then you left my city full of trails.

The time robbed us with saw teeth.

The sun rose full of hairs.

 Now in the distance, friend, you are perhaps the most contrary to our closeness.