summer heat wave
“Con este calor no puedo estar tranquila sin ducharme primero con agua fría”, se dijo sliding onto the bed con la piel soft smooth dry, without the sheets sticking.
I lost the bloc with all my ideas, I left it in the train station by the telephone both. I also forgot my fancy royal blue fountain pen with handmixed ink there. When I went back the next morning they were (obviously) gone. Who will have them now? Will they read them? Will they write a story with them? Will I have to start over? Will they like the unique colors of ink?
He lives in one of the million flats that I can see from my balcony. I don’t know which one. But he will asomar one of these days and wave to me. And I’ll wave back and then look down, recalling the betrayal, painful consequences, and short-duration of happiness. We will communicate like that for a few days, with hand gestures, exaggerated facial expressions, and binoculars. We have decided to meet down in the street. He’s a little taller than me. First we just look at each other up and down and then he gives the 2 cheek kisses which I think are silly for that encounter. Le digo que the cleaning lady annoys me. Me pregunta por qué in a somewhat high nasal voice. Le replico que she blamed me for the scratched stove. She's anal. We walk up to the park Guell behind our street. We share a street. It’s late evening and most of the tourists have left the park. I enjoy his attentive company, but is it merely because I am not busy at the moment? Is it because I’m not annoyed by the heat? If I were busy and sweaty would I want his company? These days have been a little dull with no work, no obligations, no studies, no one to help…Now I feel like I have a reason to wake up in the morning. I put my contacts on, brush my teeth and walk out to the balcony to wave at him.
I wait sitting out on the balcony. “5 stories up and 2 from the left”, I keep repeating to myself “5 stories up and 2 from the left” and counting to see if I have mistaken, all the balconies of his building are identical and sometimes I get his mixed up with the rest. But it’s clear. He doesn’t asomar from his balcony to greet me anymore. I think he found my physical and verbal honesty- vulgar, and my lack of skirts- unsexy.
--Travessera de Dalt, 2003
