32 “My dream life too”
32
“My dream life too”
I could’ve woken up remembering our trip to Lisbon. Or the day of Rita’s wedding. Or maybe when we went to that festival in Valencia, the day Vetusta Morla and Zahara played the same night, and he got a little drunk and said into my ear that I had made him understand love songs. I could have woken up again and again on lazy Sundays lounging in bed and on the couch, the ones where we binged whole series, ate terribly, and fucked like it was a sport. Or on those Saturdays when we tried to cook recipes that came out disgusting, but we ate them anyway. Or the Wednesday nights, getting undressed in our bedroom, talking about the day enveloped in that intimacy and normality calm love provides. Maybe in the honeymoon period, when you smile too much, when you make such an effort to be the best version of yourself without realizing that the best version will always be the whole one, even though you have your shadows.
But no.
I’m determined to invent my own song, which will be called “Go to Fucking Hell,” and the lyrics would be: “In the neurotic’s bingo game, I haven’t had much luck, because out of all the days, I landed on one in the middle of COVID.” And it’ll be a global hit. I’ll be a star in Korea.
Just my luck. Of all the days in the world, I have to relive the fucking pandemic. At least living through it the second time, I can be grateful the fear of the unknown is gone…for me but not for him. Tristan is scared, as we all were, but unwilling to admit it. I guess he was always too proud to show his weaknesses. And I was too optimistic to see ours.
To be honest, lockdown was not our greatest era as a couple. The apartment is small, and we both had a lot of work to do. I didn’t handle the lockdown well, and he really struggled with the distance from his loved ones. Having something imposed on you can make it unbearable.
The first ten days were easy, even peaceful in some twisted way. We took advantage of the chance to be together more than work had ever allowed us before. But the first month as a whole…was not easy. Tension loomed over our heads like a thick, gray, rain-laden cloud. I remember thinking that we wouldn’t make it all the time, that our relationship would be collateral damage of the situation, like so many others. We were fighting about cleaning and mess. About cooking. About doing the dishes. About if one of us was breathing too loudly or the other one was clearing his throat too much. And parroting the news to each other at the same time. About whose turn it was to take the recycling downstairs. Sex took a hit, of course, although it had already taken a hit since Tristan saw me take the Pill one morning around Christmas. It’s not like I was sneaking it. We just had never had that conversation, and things left unsaid are like that frenemy who’s always talking shit about you behind your back.
But a little over a month after lockdown started…the sun came out. They say human beings are capable of adapting to anything.
Wait…hold on. Let me rewind.
When I say the sun came out…I don’t mean a rainbow, little birds singing, bunnies hopping behind dew-covered bushes, and deer drinking water from a spring. It’s more like…like those gray days when you can see light through a thin layer of clouds and it stops raining.
And there we are. That’s where I woke up today. Shitty luck.
Today, we celebrate thirty-five days of lockdown, and we’ve sunk into a more comfortable but eerie calm. Even I’m aware that the Miranda and Tristan who were crazy in love are in the distant past, and I don’t really know what happened. Maybe nothing. Maybe that’s exactly what happened to us: nothing.
I come out of the bathroom and pass behind him, typing away with his headphones on. I can hear that he’s listening to “Eternal Summer” by The Strokes. If I’m not mistaken, it just came out, and Tristan loves it.
I lean over and kiss his neck. He takes out one of his headphones, a little surprised by the affection.
“What’s up?”
“Nothing. I just wanted to give you a kiss.” I smile at him. “I love that you still wear cologne even though we’re stuck in the house.”
“I have a female to seduce,” he jokes.
I vaguely remember a comment like that causing a fight; if it wasn’t today, it was a day like today. I guess I considered it cruel, given the circumstances, or I took it as an opportunity to throw how he never touches me in his face. Or who knows?
I take a deep breath and gesture at his computer screen.
“What are you doing?”
“Drafting an email for a client who doesn’t understand the proceedings. And it’s complicated because”—he turns around to look at me properly—“I barely understand it myself.”
We both smile.
“How are you doing?” I ask him.
He sucks in air. He’s wearing the old jeans that I like so much and a white cotton T-shirt. Have we talked about how hot white looks on brunettes? No, probably better not to.
“I’m just like I was yesterday…and the day before yesterday…and the day before that.” He pulls his hands apart, drawing a straight line.
I drag the chair back and sit sideways in his lap. He’s about to pull his left headphone out, but I pick up the cable and put the other one in my right ear. I smile at him.
“You like routine,” I point out.
“Yeah. I guess so. If the situation out there weren’t what it is…and if I weren’t so worried about my parents and how things will be when everything goes back to normal…well, it’s ideal, right? Both of us at home. Chillin’.” He says the last word in English.
“Wow, you’re so cosmopolitan.”
We both fall silent, not really knowing what to say, while I stroke his earlobe, the same one where, years ago, I laughed when I discovered the two piercings from his teenage years.
“Change the song,” I ask him. “The electric guitar is making my head pound.”
“I thought you liked getting pounded?”
“Only by you.”
He lets a soft laugh escape as he turns back to the computer.
“Wait…I’m going to show you something super romantic that I’m sure you don’t know.”
He selects a song with a double click of the mouse and then settles down to watch me as the simple, rhythmic sound of the guitar strumming starts and then a male voice quickly joins.
“It’s by a singer from Mexico.”
For the next three minutes and forty-five seconds, we don’t say a word. We just listen to the song. I can’t decide if it seems sad, hopeful, romantic, or painful, and from now on, it will always taste like him. I already knew that. It’s the first time I’ve listened to it since, and it hurts like hell. I’m surprised to find there’s so much of the truth about us in the lyrics…so much truth we don’t know yet.
“I like it,” I say when it ends.
And my voice sounds weak, because it made me sad, like someone crying in front of a painting or listening to a poem written by someone who has nothing to do with them.
“I knew it.”
Another song plays.
“Listen, Miri…” He absentmindedly strokes the part of my neck exposed by my nightie. “I kinda meant what I said, you know?”
“Which part?”
“The thing about how if a global pandemic weren’t the reason we were trapped in the house…this wouldn’t be so bad.”
“You’re not dying to go out? You don’t feel like the walls are closing in on you?”
“I kinda miss going out for dinner or…I don’t know…playing sports in the fresh air. Strolling around. And seeing my family, of course…but this has been good for making me realize that”—he moves his head—“I’m a pretty calm boy.”
“Everyone knows you’re a calm boy.”
“So what are we gonna do about that?” he asks, tenderly pushing my hair off my forehead. “What can we do about a calm boy in the capital?”
“You’d have to ask the calm boy, right? What does he want?”
“He wants the high-strung girl.”
“Yeah…the high-strung girl glued to the city.”
“But the boy doesn’t want the city. Can we unglue her? Or are they conjoined twins who share vital organs that make living a separate life impossible?”
I use a smile to disguise how much what he’s saying scares me. After everything I’ve worked so hard on, we’re back here again.
“And what would you do with a girl from the city without the city, calm boy?”
“You’ve never thought about leaving all this?”
“Leaving what, exactly?” I ask, still stroking his hair, his neck, and his earlobes.
“Leaving Madrid. It’s fine, eh. I’m not saying it’s not. And I’m not asking you to consider it right now, but…you’ve never thought about it?”
“In what context? Because, I don’t know, we all fantasize about winning the EuroMillions and spending our lives traipsing around on a never-ending vacation.”
“No, not like that. I mean a change of scene. Taking a different turn in the road. Working for some small publication in the ‘provinces’ or…or going back to writing, leaving the managing part aside. Being freelance. Or a correspondent from outside Madrid. Living in a little house…a little house with some land. And a dog. You love greyhounds. You always say you’d like to adopt one and walk it around in a scarf in the winter.” I start to say something, but he cuts me off. “A few more years here achieving our goals and then…living life. Real life.”
I had never realized, but for Tristan, living in Madrid was always like being plugged into a Matrix. A kind of simulation of what he considers real life, a surrogate for fast fashion, something “just for now.” Like the fast, flashy car you buy when you’re young without even thinking about whether it’s practical.
I stroke his temple and sigh.
“That sigh sounds like a no.” He smiles sadly.
“For me, this is real life too.”
“Working twelve-hour days, coming home with just enough energy to wolf something down and then go straight to sleep? Or rushing to get changed for some event. A brand presentation. Some awards show. A premier. And not for pleasure. Thirty vacation days enjoyed where you have your ass clenched the whole time, worrying the shit will hit the fan and they’ll need you when you’re not there… Is that really your dream life, Miranda?”
Is that how he sees it?
What about the pleasure of my fingers on the keyboard, the sensation of holding the printed magazine, seeing a girl reading it on the subway, being lauded as a driving force of something good for the youth, participating in causes we believe in… What about the fun we have at those parties we’re sometimes obliged to go to? And the conversations held with hundreds of interesting and brilliant people who you can meet in different functions or activities? I’ve eaten dinner behind closed doors at the Louvre. I’ve visited the atelier where they design the couture looks that are heading down the runway in the Dior show. I’ve given a master class in journalism. I met with all the directors and subdirectors at the international headquarters in New York. I’ve watched Adele sing a cappella at an event…
Fuck. And that’s just one part of my life. That’s my work. My job has immaculate vibes. But…
I have Ivan, the guy who can drink a bottle of Larios with Coke Zero in two hours and dance “Paquito el Chocolatero” with strangers, with whom I can make lemon cookies and watch funny movies on a Sunday at his house. Someone to travel with, to confide in, to love. And he’s not the only one of my good friends I would call to help me bury a body.
I have my father, who endlessly tells me tales from a life I didn’t live and keeps me anchored to a part of my history.
I have Madrid, which on one hand is a huge city that dresses up in fancy clothes, and high heels, invites you to parties, plies you with cocktails, is cool, cutting-edge, reads, participates in life, in culture, in the future, and sparkles…and on the other hand is home, a Sunday with hot chocolate and churros, a calamari sandwich in La Latina, coffee shops where you feel at home, old bookstores, cobbled streets, history, tradition.
Should I go on?
And he’s asking if this is my dream life?
“Yes,” I answer. “Yes, it is.”
To make up for how sad this conversation is, I kiss him. I melt into an intense kiss, nipping his full lips, letting my tongue caress his while I muss his hair. He responds shyly at first. But soon he’s matching my intensity with the same desire, the same need.
I’ve always been fascinated by how easily a kiss can make you breathless. Not any kiss. But a good one. And right now, our breathing is like heavy machinery chugging up into full operation.
My fingers are intertwined in his black hair, and his fingers are on my neck and my ass. The pressure of his thumb, right in the valley drawn on the bottom of my throat, turns me on so fast it makes me moan. And that moan makes him moan. I grab the hand he has on my ass and put it on my breast, but he lets go…so he can slip under my clothes and grab it again with nothing between his skin and mine. My whole body is awake, and so is his under my thighs, so I sit up, still kissing him, and straddle him.
As we move, the headphones tumble to the floor, and our mouths pull apart for a fraction of a second. As our lips reconnect, I sense the shift…
“Miri… Miri…” He pulls away a little and moves back.
“What?” I ask, panting. “Should we move to the bedroom?”
“Miri…it’s noon. I have to work. I was in the middle of sending an email.”
Years ago, the old Miranda, with the fire I was born with that burned even brighter as I grew up, would’ve probably insisted. But the one straddling a boyfriend who just used an excuse to reject her is tired. Very tired. Tired, sad, and frustrated.
I know he wants it too. I’m not the problem. He’s not either. The problem is one of the ghosts that will haunt us in the future…and they’re starting to let their electronic voice phenomena be heard.
“Okay.” I pat his chest, breathing hard. “Okay.”
I stand up, not bothering to hide my frustration, and Tristan doesn’t make much effort to hide how he’s adjusting his erection under his pants.
“I’m sorry, babe…it’s just that…”
“It’s fine.” I fix my nightie and my hair and go to the corner where my desk is. “I have to send some emails too.”
A terrible silence fills the cramped but open-plan living room and dining room, which is actually the same room. As soon as I get to my desk, I say his name.
“Tristan…”
“Yeah?” He doesn’t turn around.
“What we have, you and me…that, this, is my dream life too.”