The origin was not the city, perhaps that is why I do not find the answers I need neither in the lights of the avenues, nor in the rusty corners, nor in the squares where the pigeons gather to flutter after the crumbs left by passers-by. The noise of the engines, the radio in the background, the murmur of people coming and going on the sidewalks fail to mitigate those voices that invade me, fail to distract my thoughts that lengthen, electrify, bounce against the cavities exploring definitions, gestures, signs of that which is so difficult to express. The last time I saw him, I asked him how he felt about me and I noticed the doubt in his silence.
– Loving is difficulthe finally responded.
I discovered in his eyes the depth of the sea, shaking off the crustaceans and the crystals of time, the waves of its perplexity confusing the foam with whims of the moon, the tide having fun with its limits of salt and sand. I perceived that he did not want to hurt me, but words break, tie and entangle the possible meanings. Even more so for us, who couldn’t build a story together; that we will never have the opportunity, because each one chose a different path, a course that is only barely touched. However it is important to know.
And I, lost in that gaze that was magnetism and slope, investigated the beginning of that nonsense, of that delirium of destiny that made us laugh and cry. What is the genesis of love? In what second, by what miraculous reaction, did the soul tremble with hope? How did this feeling that has a lot of God, but also a hint of the absurd and the infamous, take root?
In a mental fraction, I traveled through the itineraries of memory, the games of childhood, his absence during the years of study abroad, the joy of reunions, the first kisses. Also that time when he confessed to me that there was an incredible woman in his life, he had gotten married and already had a son. I remembered my pain in what I thought was a farewell, the hours of sadness, my slow recovery until I was able to form a beautiful family. And when I was convinced that that bond had been buried in the past, it came back. And he returned with different excuses every two or three years and in the face of that happiness so raw, so fierce and fleeting, I couldn’t, I didn’t want to, reject him.
That afternoon, my hand capriciously approached his face, touching that skin so gently that he half-closed his eyelids and breathed slowly. He didn’t want to reveal to me the vademecum of his reflections. And I understood it. I always understand it. I guessed he was weighing a negative argument, and leaving quickly so he wouldn’t have to face my tears. But… How was he going to explain that oblivion did not come, that desire was an endless round of ants that ate his flesh, that he refused to feel and yet could not disappear?
– Wanting is easyI muttered.
It is enough to open your heart and give what we keep inside. The complex thing is accepting this momentary happiness, the certainty of an existence with other loves and with this, invisible, inevitable constantly pricking the throat, without knowing if we will cross paths again…
Now I’m sure. The beginning was loneliness trying to drown in the crowd, getting stuck in strident sounds, noticing that emptiness that itches like scabies and only appeases when you stop resisting the tenderness. He understood it too. Maybe that’s why he smiled with enlightened nostalgia and hugged me.
