¿?

¿Nunca te pasa que queres decir algo pero a medida que lo vas diciendo, no decís lo que querés decir? Y hablas, hacés oraciones y usas palabras que en conjunto, están diciendo algo. Pero no es lo que querías decir. Y de repente, tu discurso se transformó en algo totalmente ajeno a lo que sos y pensás. Y no decís lo que querés decir, pero lo que estás diciendo tiene sentido, así lo que seguís diciendo. 

it's the wind

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do” he says. Light is bright but limited by the fogged windows, so it is slightly dark. Silhouettes are softly seen, and I can see no eyes. As far as I am concerned, no one is looking at me. It’s cold, but it’s so quiet. “Only what makes you comfortable” I am comfortable. Dark always makes me feel comfortable. They moved softly. She was always so soft. Her voice, her skin, her perfume, her hair. Always so soft. She felt soft now too. I could see their dark figures moving around. I wish they wouldn’t. The car moved, like a boat almost. The light changed a little. But the windows remained fogged. Smoke would look very nice with this light, and the cold outside. The road and the light, the clear sky. I could see all the stars a bit further from the car, towards to where the lamppost light couldn’t reach. They don’t moan. They breathe faster. Which I like. Moaning would ruin the picture and corrupt the stillness. His hand grabs my neck. So sudden. He’s like that. His hands are big and… careless. Always just... there. I’m still not sure where he came from. But he doesn’t pull. It’s just there. Probably prompting me to do something. But it’s so quiet. So pretty. I remember the times I would hide behind the curtain in the living room. It felt like this. I was there, and I could hear the TV, my mother’s voice is the only one I remember for some reason, the arguments, the laughs, I could smell the coffee, the food. I could only see their shapes standing up, sitting down, hear the chairs scraping the floor. Like now. Although there is no curtain here. I’m right here, right now. They know I’m here. They probably want me to do something. I’m not hiding here. The dark doesn’t hide me. Their bodies are so very close to mine. Their heat. Their movements move me and the car. The stars are so far away. I know that’s her arm and her breasts because she is soft. I can smell his perfume. I really wish I had a cigarette right now. Maybe I could go outside and… No. It’s cold. And I’m here. For this. I came for this, I guess. The invited me along, and we drove all over here, so close to the river, which is very beautiful. But we’re here. I’m having sex with these people. With her softness and his suddenness. I don’t grab his hand, I help her to get on me so her legs are not pressed against the front seat. She kisses me. Grabs my hair and my neck. She moves his hand to my shoulder and he pulls me closer. I know his perfume by heart by now and I can feel his poorly shaved beard on my neck. I am now between them, my head near his neck and her body on me. I love her perfume. I can’t see outside the window anymore and that’s a shame. I would like to remember this sight for ever. It feels like a movie. One of those movies where life is still, waiting for the characters to do things but they never do. Out of choice, they’re so cool they can just see life pass them by and be chill about it. I love those movies because I would love to just see life pass me by and know exactly what’s happening. They show such an understanding of how life works, they can choose to be still, like the light and the wind and music. Just smoke, and wait. I’m always lost in the moment, I have absolutely no idea what’s happening. How I got here. What does this mean for me. Or even if it does mean something. I don’t think it does. But it’s so real. Her skin on my arm, my leg between her legs, his fingers on my underwear, his perfume, her hair, their lips. I wonder if I’ll be able to remember their lips separately or if they will always be a they for me. I wonder if I’ll care. I’m not sure I like kissing them. Or touching them. Or seeing them touch each other or me, for that matter. I’m not sure if I don’t like it or if it just bores me. Either way… I wish I were alone. Or just unnoticed. Just still. Perhaps they’ll remember me as still. I help him get the seat down backwards, and he sits there. She kisses me in the meantime, and gets her hands under my t-shirt. She sits on top of me. I help her get her shirt off. I think it’s cold and I don’t want to take mine off. I can feel him moving, his legs against mine are awkward and clumsy, the car’s not big enough for the three of us. I wonder how they know what to do… Have they agreed beforehand what we were going to do? Have they talked about this before coming here? Do they just know each other so well as to anticipate what the other one is doing? Am I so out of touch with reality I think everyone is plotting against (or without) me? I grab her waist so she doesn’t fall backwards while he grabs her face and kisses her. Am I paranoid? Do I want to fuck in this car? Does it fucking matter? I can’t just tell them “You know what, fuck this, I want to go home. Fuck you and everyone else” Mainly because I have no idea where we are. Nor do I have the slightest idea how I could possibly go back home. It feels there’s nothing here but us. She gets off me, and starts to kneel down in front of him. “Can you open the door?” she asks me. So I do. The one right next to her. I know why, but I don’t know why she insists on it if she always feels sick after it. And I know it’s weird, and very possibly fucked up. But so am I. My left shoulder still burns from the cuts in it, and I can’t help thinking that I should have put some napkins on it so to not get blood on my t-shirt. My mother didn’t say anything about them last time though, so she probably won’t say anything now. Maybe she just doesn’t realize. Even if she did… it’s better if she doesn’t ask. What would I say? Nothing, as usual. I haven’t said a single word now either. With these two I’m “fucking with” (yeah, right) I think the last thing I said was something like “That’s a nice song. What is it?” I don’t even know his full name. I was told yesterday she has a boyfriend who’s not him, and that her family is mormon. I don’t know if that’s true. I don’t really care either. Her kisses are lovely. I wonder what my school mates think we do. They never ask. And they ask about my cuts. I wonder how truly fucked up this is. I can see the light from the lamppost again as I’m sitting again against the left back door, but now the light comes in through the open door and it just fucks up the whole thing. I would put the radio on, if only to hear some music, but I feel suddenly stuck to the spot. I feel like I can’t move. I don’t know if it’s shame, cold, awkwardness or just plain despair. But I can’t move. I want to leave, but I don’t want to move. I don’t want to move my eyes, I don’t want to move my hands or my legs or my head or my mouth. I feel the wind coming through the open door, their moans, the leather on my back and the door’s cold plastic on my left arm, not too far from my burning shoulder. I think it wouldn’t hurt to put some cold on the cuts, but I’m terrified to move. The other door closes and the car shakes. My muscles are tense and scared. As if I were to about to jump off a cliff. They drink something, I don’t want anything, because I don’t think I can open my mouth. She puts her shirt back on because it’s fucking cold. They laugh. I feel compressed and tired. He puts the radio on. She is singing. I can’t see the stars because he puts the seat back up. She kisses my neck and he grabs my hand. I smile, because I don’t want to be seen. I move a little to grab the bottle that’s on the door next to me. “Wanna go to a bar? It’s near and we can see the river” he says “Sure, yeah” she says

“Ok” I say.

19.45

Se levantó a la misma hora de siempre. La alarma sonó igual que siempre. Se lavó el cuerpo de la transpiración nocturna, se lavó los dientes y se peino mientras se miraba al espejo. Mientras se vestía, despacio tras cuidadosa selección de su ropa interior, su marido le beso el cuello y los hombros. Hizo el mismo desayuno de siempre. Despertó a la misma hora de siempre a su hijo de 5 años y a su marido de 45 años. Los miró mientras terminaban su desayuno. Revisó la mochila de su hijo, se aseguró de que tenga la ropa bien puesta. Salieron los tres. Ella y el hijo se subieron al auto y saludaron al marido. Él se tomaba el colectivo. Su trabajo era en una oficina del centro, como tantas otras, y hace meses ya había decidido dejarles el auto a ellos porque él se estresaba mucho en el centro con el tráfico. Ella, en cambio, iba para el otro lado a un jardín muy lindo y elitista. Religioso y muy caro. Ella frenó en un puesto de flores grande a comprar un ramo de las más imponentes orquídeas que había visto. Las puso en el asiento del co-piloto. Su hijo le robó una flor, porque le pareció muy lindo el color y el aroma. Pensó en dárselo a su señorita cuando llegara al jardín. Su señorita era buena. En cuanto saludó a la madre y le soltó la mano, fue corriendo hacia la señorita con la flor en alto. La madre se iba tras una última mirada al pelo de la señorita de su hijo enredado por el viento. Ya estaba en el auto. Paseó con el auto hasta un lago que había en la ciudad. Decían que por lo menos 2 adolescentes cada año se ahogaban ahí. Por prepotentes. “Causa de muerte: prepotentes” Ella, siendo médica forense, se rió. Volvió a subirse al auto, compró la comida para la noche: pollo y papas. Sacó la receta de su carpeta y la dejó en la mesa. Miró el reloj de la cocina, colgado arriba de la puerta. Observó pasar 30 segundos. A su abuela le gustaba escuchar el reloj, se acordó. Se cambió la camisa que tenía puesta por un vestido floreado más suelto y se quitó el corpiño apretado. Odiaba usar corpiño. Se soltó el pelo castaño claro y volvió al auto. Acercó el ramo de orquídeas a su nariz y recordó el campo de su infancia. Recordó a su padre trabajando en la granja y a su madre ordenando los floreros con orquídeas en la casa con las manos llenas de tierra, y un canasto de mimbre en la mesa con vegetales del huerto. Recordaba con cariño los tomates, tan redondos y rojos. Se le hizo agua la boca y se lamió los labios. Pensó que había olvidado comprar tomates. Arrancó el auto y volvió hasta el lago. Puso el auto en punto muerto, sacó las llaves, salió del auto con el ramo de flores y le puso la alarma al auto. Se acercó hasta un puente que habían hecho recientemente y se paró en medio. Miró sus flores, y decidió sacarles el envoltorio de plástico. Siempre son más lindas sueltas, pensó. Dejó el envoltorio tirado en el piso del puente. Escuchó brevemente a su hijo reprochando ese descuido, citando a su señorita que dice que es importante cuidar del ambiente. Pensó aún más brevemente si su hijo le perdonaría ese descuido. Volvió a acercarse a las flores, oliendo su casa, el campo de sus padres, su perro, sus tomates. Cerró los ojos y se tiró del puente al centro del lago. Se tiró de espaldas y el aire rápidamente la envolvió y acarició su cuerpo. Ella soltó las flores mientras caía pensando que eran todavía demasiado bellas, y que se verían muy lindas flotando en el agua con la luz que daba justo ahora creando un brillo tan delicado. Las flores flotaron en el agua, mecidas por las olas delicadas y tan suaves que luego, los transeúntes tendrían problemas para creer que una mujer se había tirado al agua ahí.