Ashes of a burning love

It was a traditional day, of stressful airports, lectures in geomatic English and back pain for the heavy Toshiba that nicked right in the right shoulder. After a couple of hours of delayed flight I had tasted two coffees and a chocolate bar. To spend time I had bought a special version of Live to tell-From García Márquez-, act by which the saleswoman gave me a separator of interesting design on which I tried my name, trying a marker that I did not finally buy. Resigned to the waiting I had sat in a room where there seemed to be people who had nothing else to do.

When I heard the call to approach the terminal 27 I got up like a soldier and went immediately looking for a nearby chair. When I took out my book, to which I had devoured some 43 pages, I realized that the separator was not there, I remembered seeing it fall from my chair, so I hurriedly went back to look for it.

When I arrived, I found familiar the face of a lady who, with her legs crossed and a strange green suitcase, had settled into the chair. I could see the separator below, I hurried and politely asked him to allow me to pick up something under his chair. He shot me a quick glance, into the void and immediately bent his torso to do it on his own. He took the separator and watched it for a few seconds, then he saw me with the right eyebrow and at that moment life froze like a charamusca.


For months I had dedicated my hidden gifts to writing letters to order to a couple of classmates, one of second and another school that for fifty cents 17 hired my lines for girls who fell in love with my lyrics and were fond of their names. Those were the years when I thought that my face, hidden behind a bad hairstyle on the side and the pejorative of not being of the capital, would never allow me a positive response from a girl, less than the one that illuminated my eyes to three chairs in front of my row Willing never to deliver it, he had written a letter with the dedication of this same story, with words that I never put in the mercenary missives. He had folded it as the format said, and with great delicacy he had interlaced the initials of our names.

One day I decided to give it to her, the excuse was childish but it took me days to plan it. In the morning I asked her to loan me the Social Studies notebook, in the middle I had placed the little card, right in the section that she had to study in order not to fall into the ridicule of the Elementary proficiency with his annoying 7 question in the morning.

"Your notebook," I said, shaking my hand as if I was getting into the boarding school an ounce of drug or half pornographic magazine.

She extended her hand and while looking at me with a courteous smile, we both witnessed how the letter fell to the floor. I trembled like when daddy's Cucaracho He found us stealing cane, I caught his eyes and I could see how his brow furrowed, then bent down to pick up the letter and then his eyebrows stretched, lengthened and frown again while his hand enclosed the card. Then his eyebrow skipped and saw me while his delicate lips let out a smile of curiosity, bewilderment and magic.


It was the reason why I recognized in an accurate way his expression when picking up the separator, immediately he transported me kilometers in the same second almost 23 years later. He must have read my name -sure no one else is wearing-. He furrowed his two eyebrows in the center, warped them and looked up at me in a synchrony that only fate could have prepared. Her beautiful eyebrows expanded in bewilderment, immediately her two eyes sparkled, trembled and her delicate mouth made the same expression that afternoon in the class of Civic education.

I froze, stretched out my hand to ask for the separator and when his fingers touched mine an electric current crossed my heart and my legs trembled like vertical blinds. A lump hung in my throat and a half tear formed at the end of my eye while I saw that face saved in the 1 sector of my record for years. His cheekbones were the same, with some makeup, shadows on the eyelids and parlor drying that seemed not to be his habit but that gave a slightly different touch to what the boarding school forbade. But it was herself.

Then while we held hands, ignorant to the place, the suitcases and noises from the loudspeakers, the time capsule opened. They ran through my memories the six months of that year, after my letter touched his heart and decided to answer words that left me a whole week with pains in the sternum. I longed for the class to come to see her come in, tidy with her skirt in knuckles, impeccable brown hair, so that she would catch me with that look that would give me life all morning and death at night. Then I longed for the day of the afternoon to come so he could give me the notebook with the little note that was going to stop in my pocket. The class lasted an eternity, impatiently endured inert, to go read it seven times, with tears in the stomach and pain inside -very deep inside- Of bones. Then he wanted it to come at night so they would turn off the light. I closed my eyes and literally saw his face with a half smile, his eyebrows furrowed, in camber, smiling.

Time did not seem to pass, things did not have a sense of being, classes, people, only she and me. No one ever asked about the secret of the notebook that had two letters of return and two of coming in each week, with phrases that had never written to order and answers that until then I never imagined could come from his soul.

That was the life in the boarding school, we loved with all our soul a face that we would never touch, eyes that we would never kiss, lips that only hopefully we kissed. The few contacts stolen were in the class of the Teacher, when I let her use the chisel to ruin my wooden car while I gave her a lesson that only had the objective of touching her hands, an act to which she responded with twitches at the tips of my fingers. Those were the most sublime moments of romance, she said -on the cards- that melted his soul while at my 13 years the sensation was so strong that it caused me slight ejaculations of lubricant and a desire to die inside before the euphoria for shouting his name on Saturn on a Monday morning. At this point I do not feel sorry to confess it this way, but in those pubertos years, of course, everything was a completely legitimate chaos.

But no one can imagine if the ashes of that can be transposed beyond the complications that we acquire and give meaning to this life.


That moment of illumination barely gave us time to cross a couple of words at the airport, it did not seem necessary and we did not even notice how long the finger grip lasted. Her delicate nails, without enamel, tightened my fingers again and the hug was intense. I kissed her neck near her earrings with a desire to cry, while she smelled her perfume of roses in water, I could feel a plaintive whimper when I told her the name -what was his name?- just in the ear, as I felt her breasts pressing my thorax.

Then the speaker announced my name, warning that the door was going to close. I felt anger and in an impulsive second I asked him his e-mail, he pointed it in the separator, I dictated mine but I understood his little ability with the arroba when he could not interpret the word gmail.

"Do not worry, I have yours," I said, to which he replied insistently.
-Don't lose it, you should write it to me-

But there was no time, so I took the separator, I put it in the book and left with a short hug and the impact of his bite on my neck.

I got on the plane, anxious for the race to lose it and the fright of the furtive encounter. I pressed the book to my chest as if it were part of my being, as if my life were there, while I was preparing to dream. A few seconds later the traveling companion began to talk like a machine gun, he seemed to be a guy who could not stop talking. I did not want to lose that moment with a charlatan who spoke to me about a thousand things in six paragraphs without a sangrilla, so I took it to the subject of García Márquez. Just in my plans seemed to have read each of his books, I preferred Litter,so I offered my copy, which, as I expected, I still did not read.

I took the separator, I put it in my pocket as I did with the little letters, then I closed my eyes ... and I saw it again. There, where he sat on the other side of the court, under the window of the house of the Prof. Raquel Ramos, legs crossed and look lost. I, from the other side, on the wooden bench, until our eyes connected in a virtual thread that seemed to ignore the basketball game, the whistle of the counselor, the parrots next door or the final score. I remembered that trip to The Relief, by the pool Azulera, when she wore an aqua green blouse fitted to the body ... her smile must have been the same but the impact was unique and unforgettable. Then I remembered the trip to San Jose del Potrero, -More potrero than San José-. This time in the celestial uniform of the choir of Prof. Nancy ... like the angels.

-Esdras prepared his heart, to inquire into his law ...

they really did it like the angels.

His divine face finally caressed me, and with two sleepless nights he literally drove me on a walk in the clouds.

The departure from the airport was quick, the taxi took me to the hotel and at one point I was sitting comfortably in a Louis XV chair looking for the wireless connection. I put my hand in my pocket to look for the separator and I did not find it. I put my hand in the other, I did not find it either. A fear invaded my heart and I started looking for other places: in the book, in my wallet, in my shirt, in my passport ... I was not there!

Slowly, one, another, and again I checked each briefs of my luggage, as I was discarding each piece, a pain in the chest began to grow. Then I took off every garment until I was naked, I felt like an idiot for the second time and as I unconsciously began to make teaspoons I arrived at the fateful conclusion.

-What Trash! - I shouted with my esophagus. While I was pulling my hair, I threw pouts against the air and released other blasphemies unworthy of this blog.


That was a few years ago. I do not know whether to reproach my stubbornness, to question the fate, to suppose that we are both complicated or to doubt if it really happened.

I can only be grateful for having allowed me to love her beyond dreams, more than once. More fleeting could not be, but in both cases, with the sole reason to remind me that I exist.

Thanks, again.


Taken from there, almost with the same ink, for a few readers who know that there is not only OpenSource.

6 Replies to "Ashes of a burning love"

  1. Hehe.
    After 5 years of blog ... If you look at the category Leisure and inspiration, you will see that there was always an article like this.

    Greetings.

  2. I do not understand, it does not come to the case this post who in GEOFUMADAS that would be for a female section or something, cheesy. jejejeje smiles but maybe there people who think the same as me. Greetings to the friends of Geofumadas

  3. Yes, I understand that it is difficult to make pinnacles with more daring than skill, when you have readers who have been hairless reading a lot.

    A greeting.

  4. Hi Angela. Good to see you here, thanks for the charisma you provoke.

    A hug

  5. Nooooooooo I prefer The Art of War ... I also read one like that and the end was not at an airport but at a dilapidated dock ... the time stopped so much that a snail spawned on the fingers ... despite its design the mormodes died

  6. It's good to read you again! You left me glued to the screen to know the end ... although I sensed that this separator would not come to fruition

    Regards!

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