The first thing Clara did when she woke up on Sunday morning was to feel the opposite side of the bed, her eyes still closed. And since his fingers only encountered wrinkles and some already cold cotton balls, he immediately opened his eyelids. A shadow of fear ran through her. He knew the feeling very well.
One night of drinking, cuddling, wild sex and the next day nothing. The most absolute loneliness. The phone that doesn’t ring and the other’s that doesn’t answer. And, in the worst case, disappeared even from social networks, and from the sites that both used to frequent, or where they had just met. Therefore, his awakening was hasty and distressing. Though her head was still spinning, she stood up immediately, slipped into her blue silk lifter, and began searching everywhere for signs of the still-loved and already traumatic presence of her man. Or the one she thought was her man, the right one at last? His well-deserved ‘Prince Charming’ from the fairy tales? Like a tormented arrow, she went through the living room, the dining room, the study, the bathrooms, the kitchen and even the basement, which served as a cellar and laundry room. But nothing, not even a miserable eager note, apologizing for not being able to say goodbye or, at best, saying she would have gone out to buy coffee and croissants for both of them. Just the typical, the normal and the predictable, the usual. His traditional solitude full of pleasant and ephemeral ghosts with beards, mustaches, muscular, skinny, sparkling, reserved, intellectual, air-heads, but all the same. They come and they go. As they arrive, they disappear. Through the haze of drunkenness from the night before, he could only remember the shrill music, his own hysterical laughter, and the pretty smile, framed by a very black and thick beard. “Clara, Clarita,” he called her, and she believed she saw a flash of light in his eyes when he spoke her name. “More wine, Clarita. Come on, let’s open another bottle ”, he invited her. “What a good Pinot Noir!”And stumbling down the basement wooden stairs, the two of them headed for their well-stocked wine bar, a tradition inherited from their father of French origin. I was so sure Esteban was the right one! Clara, like a weary and thirsty hound, turned on the kitchen water and drank directly from the stream, being careful to hold her hair with one hand. Now, on top of everything, he would have to deal with a bloody hangover. The following week, he set off on a tortuous and endless business trip, visiting several of the ‘star’ clients of the advertising agency for which he worked. That, at least, helped her soften Esteban’s absence. Changing the landscape and keeping your head busy, the secret to soothing any broken heart, like yours. However, he was very far from finding the cure for this new sentimental disappointment. A call woke her up at midnight on a Monday, at the hotel where she was staying. He was a policeman who demanded his immediate presence in his country to identify the body of a man, around 30 years old, who had been found dead in the basement of his house. The lady who cleaned his home for days had found him behind one of the shelves where he stored his precious wine. According to the first investigations, he had lost his balance trying to reach a bottle that was too high and, in the fall, he had severely broken his neck. His body rested completely embedded in an unlikely position, between the corners of two of those shelves, imperceptible to the naked eye. The deceased wore faded jeans and a red and black checkered lumberjack shirt, and sported a thick beard. His description fit Esteban’s. It was him, indeed.He was the right one, the one who had never left her despite everything, to the end.
