Maybe I’m just a loathsome, lonely old man. Hot-minded, too. I’ve always had a hard time controlling my head. However, in the case of what I happen to narrate, I do not care about the mental tripping of Alzheimer’s or whatever it is that has clouded my conscience. Maybe and it was plain and simple crazy luck. Luck of sentenced to death.
Like every Tuesday, I boarded the subway at the stroke of midnight, after an overdose of 50s movies, screened in a humid and dilapidated theater in the center of the city. As he wished, the train was almost empty. No drunks, no noisy, idiotic youngsters. I sighed in relief and will spread out, at ease, in one of the uncomfortable blue plastic chairs. Lulled by the rocking, and the taca-taca-taca of the machine at full speed, I fell into a pleasant sleep. Now that I think about it, maybe it was just that, a dream; a sweet, wonderful one, of which I barely remember a few bruises, and traces of dust on my perpetual gray raincoat.
Eight stations and ten minutes separate me from my house and, more or less, in the middle of the journey, the gods looked at me with compassionate eyes. A beautiful young woman, in her twenties, approached my car and stopped (I should say ‘it landed on the ground’, as it only needed to levitate supported by a pair of crystalline wings) a few meters from me, holding on to one of the steel pipes. She was wearing baggy cotton shorts and a tiny, pale blue blouse with a curious pattern of what seemed to me to be runes or cuneiform writing.
We suggest: Schizoid Perceptions (Saturday Afternoon Tales)
In the fashion of all young people today, she was absorbed in the music that was playing through her headphones, connected to her cell phone. Her hair, very blond, was tied up in a high bun with a colored scarf. He had phenomenal legs, long and muscular, but slim, strong, used, perhaps, to hard work. Gym? Bike? The yellowish light from the subway lamps bathed her thighs and calves, giving them almost an aura of magic.
He was wearing slightly muddy running shoes. On his left ankle he wore a blue tattoo in the shape of Mickey Mouse. Unlike her legs, her thorax, neck, and arms were very delicate. Beads of sweat sparkled on her slim swan neck, right at her hairline.
He began to shake his head slightly, eyes narrowed, in time with whatever came out of his padded headphones. In response to the weight of my impertinent and hallucinated gaze, he glanced at me, one, two seconds, and then went back to his own thing, levitating, innocent, like a Greek goddess vomited, by mistake, in a world of wretched and withered mortals. .
You might be interested in reading: Being Colombian or the attraction of frustration
Follow the news of El Espectador on Google NewsThen, he set about the task of checking the other possibility that explained his physique. Absorbed in her own image, reflected in the glass of the double doors of the carriage, she improvised ballet positions, always attached to the metal tube: battements, demi-plies, dehors, arabesques … The patches of darkness, the dying lightning of the tunnel, the roar of the metal beast, the exquisite figure in hypnotic movement, the sensual tension of its well-toned muscles. A timely gust of wind brought me the scent of her skin: acrid sweat and the fragrance of freshly cut flowers. Lilies… lavender… Between closed my eyes and took a deep breath, as if guaranteeing that its essence reached directly into my bloodstream as well as bits of oil, dirt and canned humors of millions of people who would have passed through this wagon. Like a vampire of vitality, plasticity and eroticism, I decided to abandon myself to such a surreal spectacle and leaned my head against the glass of the window. I was an animal bowled over by the hunter, and resigned to his death, but with my eyes on her, without losing a single detail: battements, demi-plies, dehors, arabesques …
The pasty voice from the loudspeaker announced my stop and, still reeling from the rush of adrenaline and testosterone, which I thought was already extinct in my endocrine system, I got up and walked past my accidental sublime diva, timing just enough for her to stop. the train, the doors would open and my withered humanity will walk through them, back to my rotten undead routines. But the machine came to a halt and, after the shock, the naiad rushed against my chest, and we both fell to the ground. She, straddling my belly, encircling it with her magnificent lower limbs, and her face a few inches from mine, still holding tightly to the faded cloth of my raincoat. Blessed is the survival instinct.
You might be interested in reading: La Esquina Delirante LXXIV (Micro-stories)
I still remember his warm breath of peppermint gum and marijuana, against my mouth and nose. Her firm and hard breasts, against my skeletal chest, in which for her now beat, uncontrollably, a weary heart. Sure, in vain I longed for a redeeming myocardial infarction. His green eyes were very fixed on mine, as if wondering the meaning of all this absurdity, as measuring the depth in the cliff of my downcast eyes, surrounded by wrinkles, and plagued with memories now innocuous and stagnant. Eternity, measured in light pulses of sticky warmth.
And then the traditional and inevitable reflex of remembering one’s place in the world: I made a pseudo moan of involuntary pleasure, and an uncomfortable throat clearing. She reacted, we reacted. She stood up, brushed off her clothes, and lowered her head in shame. I picked up the cell phone from the floor, which had come off his hip in the brief bang of our incident, and handed it to him. The train was already rolling again. I was missing my stop once more.
Okay? He asked me, and I, lelo, still stunned by his presence and the recent extravagance of our bodies and destinies, only responded with a confused huh?
Another announcement, another stop, but this time the two keeping their respective balance, doors that open, and she that disappears into the night, through a blinding crack in the blackness of my memory.
