Artist
-Are you feeling better?
-Yes.
I look in the cupboard for two mugs to take to the living room. Blake shakes his head.
-The kitchen is cozier. I nod as I arrange the placemats.
The kitchen is the most tender place in the house. Colors flood everything. Colors: scintillating particles hidden in brushstrokes ready to be used against that black and white glass that someone embedded in us when we were born, calling it destiny.
I have lived through too much nonsense to prove that colors know how to discolor sadness. I say this not as a result of any super-developed psychological tips of self-improvement, mine can be summed up in a basic survival instinct. Either the glass would crack on the sides, digging into my sensitive fiber of self-pity, or the colors would turn it into a needy stained glass window. For me there was never a better alternative. I would either turn to sadness or die of depression. My friends say that courage rebuilds us by molding our own ashes, in my case my watercolor-enameled hands shaped the smoldering gray of my abandoned life.
Painting life, things, the air or even tears, awaken me to the reality that I create myself.
The dark ones tell me where I am, the light ones where I should go, the bright ones rescue me, the opaque ones reassure me, and this little kitchen of experimental potpourri, taught me the true meaning of paintings, transforming the darkness of the cracks of sadness. The yellow curtains and those enthusiastic daisy tiles tinged with hopeful color the maternal abandonment. The wall in front with a pair of wooden shelves is just wide enough to keep the old Nocilla jars with orange suns and impressionist skies from dancing the mambo. My grandmother, the one with the bad glasses, decided that the precious masterpieces of my childish hands should be kept as a representation of our eternal union. A twelve-pack of watercolors made by Santa's elves, coupled with my childishly colorful art, turned the glasses and lids into Gioconda works in our tiny kitchen.
The four walls declare loudly that my fondness for blurring the shitty tones of life is in my blood. Sometimes I think that my life is a painting of brushstrokes that today I outline in timid but enthusiastic brushstrokes.
One day you will enter our kitchen and my words will come out of those jars as memories of our stifled laughter. Oh grandma, how much I miss you....
Years ago, the pots of parsley, thyme and oregano flooded our little watercolor fire pit with perfume. They all formed a perfect harmony in our little corner of smiles. But you left, and the clouds filled the window with blackness. Life drowned me, twisting me into a wet canvas dripping with drops of pain. Losing you took me back to that four-year-old girl, alone, in a doorway, sitting on a desperation-colored suitcase.
You left me and the sun did not enter through the window. The aromatic plants died of the same sentimental drought in which I found myself. I spent weeks sitting in an abandoned ball. It didn't matter if I squealed or begged, you were gone. Your tender hands no longer caressed my tangled hair. The tone of your voice disappeared between walls of cracked paint. The dark purples upraised my conformism. I don't remember the time I spent crashing thoughts against my own wailing wall.
All until one morning, carried away by your memories, I looked out the window. The sun was shining expectantly on the plants you loved so much. My carelessness pitted them against death. Discovering my terrible mistake, guilt drowned my sadness for not having you. I ran for a pitcher which I loaded three times with water. The effects proved worse than the disease. The ferns drowned from my overwatering and the oregano from the drought. My midpoints were buried next to your wooden crate ten feet underground. The sole survivor of my care turned out to be the light pink-flowered geranium. The battered one clung with sturdy roots to life. Its shrunken, wilted leaves begged for help. Like me, it, too, was suffering the loss of the best of caregivers.
Mad with grief, I squeezed my eyelids. I didn't stop until the tears dried. We had to survive. You loved us too much to end up in the cemetery of the peacefully rested. Jumping up and down I put on a pair of pants, my gold Converse and ran with the wind hitting my cheeks. Do?a Cata, official purveyor of ferns, ficus and advisor to any corner my grandmother considered unenlightened, was the only one who could save us. The moment I crossed the nursery gate embracing the geranium she held out her hands for me to give her the badly wounded one. Days in her hospital of love the plant came back to life. The two of us, although with scars of ingrained scab, continue trying to color the mornings with something called hope. Because you taught me so. I owe it to you. You loved me enough to care for me more than a mother, I, for you, try to do so.
-The painted pots have something special about them," Blake amuses himself by stroking the little-girl strokes painted on the pots.
-My grandmother used to say that these walls hold our conversations. I don't remember a confession I didn't make to her in this kitchen -my voice cracks when I see her empty chair-. You know, there wasn't a drama she didn't solve with an I love you. Not once did she regret having me. Not even when she threw her backpack in the air and came in crying about...". I dodge the name of my ex. Ruben no longer plays a role in my life.
-You miss her.
-Every morning I breathe," I shake my head and stand up to the paper napkins. I owe you an apology.
He sits in front of me with a cup of hot coffee. He keeps an eye on me.
The shame is greater than the morning appetite. Last night I hid my head in the glasses of alcohol. My behavior has no justification.
-I didn't like seeing you like this.
-Neither do I. I don't usually drink that much. I guess it was a lot of emotions.
I close my mouth nibbling a big piece of croissant. Elvira is the best pastry chef in Madrid.
-Why did you do it?
Because I was embarrassed that you watched my crappy program.
Because I felt like an idiot playing at being important.
Because I wanted to die.
Because I suffer trying to forget.
Because I like you so much that I think of no one else but you.
Because in days I have fallen in love more than in years.
Because I wake up dreaming that you love me .
-I don't know.
-You can count on me.
-I'm not a silly little girl. I can take care of myself." Her slimy hand positioned over mine annoys me.
Blake's fingers do a moonwalk worthy of Michael Jackson.
I feel worse than before.
The coffee hides my embarrassed face.
Being next to him I think A, but I say B. I feel C and I say D. I am losing what little sanity I was born with.
-Since when?
-Since when what?
-Since when do you know how to take care of yourself?
-Aren't you going to let it go?
-I am very persistent with what I want. And there it is again. That dark look that penetrates and turns the deepest corner of my intimacy.
The tranquility of his company intermingles with the excitement of his closeness. I would like to eat him with kisses, spend a night of unbridled sex, and at the same time, walk an innocent afternoon with our hands intertwined. Next to him I am a slide of extreme sensations struggling to fall, rise to the sky, and start all over again.
-I understand that you don't trust me.
I sigh, adjusting my mental madness. My history of repeating it so much has become a badly recited poetry. Certain types of pasts should carry a "Danger!" tombstone if the zombie of memories awakens, we are not responsible.
-The short version is that my mother abandoned me," I twist the corners of the paper napkin.
-What about the enlarged one?
-The zombie is buried.
-I beg your pardon?
-Nothing -I sigh incomprehensibly-. My mother left in the footsteps of a man, of life or of my cries, I don't know. Grandmother To?i took me in when I was four years old and from that moment on we both took care of each other. She was my mother, my grandmother and my everything. End of extended story.
-I'm sorry.
I say nothing. Grief is the worst feeling we abandoned people get. It brings with it non-existent loves. Whether it is for a mother, for a love or for a misfortune, no matter the reason for the abandonment, we, the forgotten ones, walk with too many looks scented with compassionate alms. And its essence is so repugnant that not even anosmia can solve it.
-And you? -I diverted the conversation.
-No, I wasn't abandoned," Blake laughs, and I have to admit that I was too.
It's the first time a guy has made a joke with my little big misfortune. I like it. Pulling jokes smells like white jasmine.
As a little girl I wore an ABANDONED sign around my neck. The mothers of other girls caressed my face and sighed. The greengrocer gave me tangerines, the blind woman with the coupon reserved a number for me for Christmas, and Juani, the one at the candy store, never charged me for lollipops. I won't complain about this one, her pity smelled like strawberry-flavored jelly beans.
I have a seventeen-year-old sister and I am her legal guardian. My parents died in a traffic accident.
-I'm so sorry. Legal guardian? How old are you?
Twenty-four.
-That's why you look so serious.
-Is serious the same as bitter?
Aying, those little eyes when they act naughty are over the top.
-I imagine that taking care of your sister gave you maturity. That's what I mean by more formal than others.
-More formal than Ruben?
-I beg your pardon?
He scratches his neck before answering.
-You mentioned it a couple of times last night before....
-Before?
-You named him. You don't remember anything that happened?
His eyes are fixed on mine. I hope I didn't say anything stupid because the truth is that after the gin and tonics my head went into washing machine mode. Clean and empty.
-I'm sure it was a foolish thing to do. Don't mind me.
-I wouldn't call it foolishness. Our encounter was most... pleasant.
-Did I do something stupid?
I close my hand over my head. I am a dramatic artist. My chemistry teacher gave me a zero and the magnificence of such a precious title.
-Calm down, I don't accept nonsense I don't want. Tell me, who is this mysterious Ruben.
He stands up straight. He has put the coffee cup aside to cross his arms more forcefully.
-My ex.
Talking about Rubén causes me infinite embarrassment. The seriousness and intelligence of one highlights the stupidity of the other.
-How long have you two been at it? -I'm sure I raised my eyebrows in that way that girls tell me I almost always do. I said I was insistent. Nothing and no one resists me when I want something.
I'd like to be a little bit of what you want...
-We broke up a year ago. His lies made me distrustful and I, in terms of trust, I'm a little tight - the details of my relationship with Ruben I keep to myself. Some mistakes out loud sound too stupid. This coffee is delicious.
-Elvira said she saw him around here recently. She thinks that he and you...
Tomorrow I set fire to your bakery.
-We meet as friends and see each other from time to time. Do you plan to stay in Madrid for a long time?
She drinks before answering. She doesn't seem happy ending the conversation about Ruben and his visits. I am.
-Enough time.
-Enough for what?
-I see that you're also into questions.
-General interest.
-I like your interest - what does that mean? -The agency needed a change of course. The time has come for the captain to look for new ports.
Twenty-four years old and an agency manager. WOW.
-The wow is buried when the company is mom's inheritance. They needed me and here I am. My real life is in my own project. I have a company that is dedicated to the construction of drones.
-Wow. Drones are something super interesting.
-Not so much, the agency is much more attractive. My mother and her family worked hard to make her one of the elite consultants.
-Then you are not a director. You are an owner!
-Shareholder is the most correct. But with few shares. Nothing impressive.
The tremors run up my knees. I almost fell on my ass. Luckily I have it firmly entrenched on the chair. The closest I came to creating something was a Barby's dress. I didn't get it. That looked more like a loincloth than a Versace.
-I assure you that I will work hard. I will not let you down. You can trust me. I will do my best to do my best. I'm a fast learner.
I speak so excitedly that I sound like a maid about to be hired.
-I have a lot of hope for you.
-You trust me as if you've known me forever.
I look to the sky hoping not to fuck it up, sometimes misfortunes always find me too soon. I'm like water to wasps. Once I was about to give my first kiss when I remembered I had eaten some Tex-Mex nachos and... the boy still hasn't recovered.
-Do you like the colors?
-Why do you say that? -This kid loves to jump topics like hopscotch.
-For this kitchen. All are signs of refreshing creativity.
-Sometimes I have a mania for adding color to things or situations. A silly amusement - my reflections on colors are too intense for a guy who barely knows me - And how does a dull engineer know so much about creativity?
He laughs before answering.
-We engineers are not as dumb as we look. My mother was an abstract painter. Besides, as the son of an artist, I know perfection when I see it. And those cookie jars are a work of art.
-You're a horrible liar," I say, looking at my third grade Mother's Day gift. A jar with a tricolor daisy and a bear looking cross-eyed. Grandma To?i kept it as my first great work. I remember I begged her to throw it away. For a change, she ignored me.
-My mother used to say that days are sketched the day before and made up in the hope of the morning awakening. She insisted on giving color to life.
My eyes widen like zeros at the sales.
-I say the same thing! What a coincidence.
Blake brings the cup to his mouth and drinks it in one breathless sip.
-So you've been painting since you were little?
-Santa Claus brought me a box of fifty pencils. I guess those were my first dabbling. But I don't do that anymore. I'm content to scribble my thoughts. Believe me, you wouldn't want to see my ideas on paper.
-From before your grandmother, don't you remember anything?
-The first image I keep is that of her hand reaching for mine. She is the only mother who deserves my memory.
An immense silence ensues until Blake breaks it by tossing me a napkin that seconds before he turned into a ball.
-First one to find the remote chooses the movie!
Poor simpleton. My chair is closer to the door.
-That's cheating! -I squeal, trying to break free from his embrace. He has me by the waist.
-All's fair in love and gambling.
-It is in war and love!
-Just what I said," he replies, giving me a kiss on the cheek before letting go and bolting.
My heart has just stopped and so have my legs. I can't move. I stroke my cheek with the feel of his lips on my skin. I'm dumb, but I swear he took longer than usual.
One second: it is a friend's affection.
Two seconds: apology kiss.
Three seconds: I love you.
And this kiss was at least four and a half seconds - four and a half seconds!