Читать книгу All Love Letters Are Ridiculous - Diego Maenza, Diego Maenza - Страница 11

Our story started in high school. An exalted girl with her thunderous voice who complained to the rector. It was the graceful Eloisa. Thin, with her waist made of porcelain and her angelic face, his bow at rear and her charisma embroidered by the youthful energy. When we met, little by little, a closeness disguised of friendship brought us together. The most important moment of the breaks was being able to see her and greet her with my glance. The mornings insisted on turning me next to her. Gradually my illusions flickered; sometimes, exalted, it did not fit me, because she chose me to talk at break; other times I was sad, because she spent her minutes in the hubbub of her group of friends.

One morning, after leaving the institute and after having participated in some games of a fair that had been installed in the town, I walked through an alley not so common in my tours with the intention of heading home. I heard shouts behind me. In the distance, a gang of girls in scruffy uniforms were beckoning me to approach them. A park smudged with sand offered us its ground as the only seat. The comments full of puerilities (of which I was oblivious) of those nymphets prevented me from participating in the chat. I shone in my silence and they directed their glances at me. Tell her, a freckled girl told me, looking at Eloisa. Nerves took over my skin. I remembered that a week ago I had awakened with the clairvoyance of being in love. I pretended to repeat a lovely speech that I had prepared some days ago, but the words flew to a dimension impossible to cross. I laughed demurely. It was when I heard the expression: Talk to her now. Eloisa’s closest friend had said it and this stimulated me to speak. I looked at her. She sat cross-legged on the position of a lotus.

I did not have to spend more than a minute for a short kiss (short in terms of body but substancious within us) to be present under the expectant eyes of the girls. The youth crying of the companions who had been suspended in front of my declaration of love rumbled rhythmically, mysteriously unanimous, as prepared with priority, unvealing the consummation of the ritual when touching her mouth with mine and extinguish finally the lip virginity of her dear friend.

I was once a virgin. I always thought that he would be the first man I would give my purity. That tingling sensation came to me every time I finished reading his love letters, smart, passionate and ridiculous, as all love letters should be. After all we’ve had a relation for few years.

But I have strayed from the subject, dear friend, and since you insist on knowing my story I will proceed to try to finish it.

If there's anything it does not erase from my memory, rather than the visual record, it is the smell of his body. If someday they asked me to identify any of them for the nature of their build, I am sure that I would be wrong in my exploration than if I did because of their smells.

The silent man, who with the passage of time I preferred to give the name of dumb, had a particular smell of machine oil, as if his work had been to lubricate all day gears of complicated mechanisms. The rotund reeked of stale onions, a stench emanated from his armpits and intensified as drops of sweat fall from his forehead over my face. The young smelled of cinnamon, but at times marked in the environment a nauseating fragrance of marinated seafood.

The onslaught of the fat vermin was the most egregious. Supporting the weight of his gross and repulsive corpulence was the least compared to feeling it in my guts.