Pulitzer
-I only asked if it was his ID card or the cardholder's. Nothing else!
Today is not my day. Or to be more exact since he has been in my house I am going from bad to worse. I am not able to think, act or reason. And how can I. He is everywhere! His little eyes disturb me, his arms stimulate me and his mouth. Aying with her mouth.
-I'm sick of everything! -I hit the door to close it. It bounces.
-Hello to you too. Bad day?
-Nothing special. I throw the keys on the plate I painted myself in elementary school and plop down on the couch.
The frustration of the unrequited lover floods me in a bad mood. The nights are a continued look at the door of the room imagining that he will come in like a gale ready to eat me with kisses. The early mornings become empty mornings tired of waiting so long. Sleeping with one eye open I lay my hair on the pillow wishing he would sweep the door with a desperate declaration of love and a kiss full of promises on my lips. But nothing happens. The day dawns and I'm still falling for the kind of guy who would never notice me. I'm sure he played baseball and is one of those Americans who took the leggy blonde to the prom. Someone should teach us that we don't all possess the same possibilities. The handsome ones fall in love with the pretty ones and the normal ones run after the bus for an autograph or as in my case we have been pining for an impossible one for days.
-What? -A fork with something steaming invades my mouth.
-Test.
-Paella?
-Yes.
-Do you know how to make paella?
-I'm trying. Shall we eat?
-Do you want to have lunch together?
-Please. I hope the rice is not overdone.
-I'm sure it's perfect," I say, standing up, still not quite believing it.
-You're up so early, I thought you might like some home cooking," he says, putting the paella pan on the table.
I am spellbound. It's these details that make my potato chip heart fall in love. What my undernourished confidence was missing. To keep dreaming of him.
-White or red? I didn't know which was the right one," he says, pointing to two bottles.
-Did you buy two?
-Of course. Did I say I was waiting for you?
-Why?
-Because I wanted to," he says, sitting down and serving a plate.
I arrange the bread perfectly. I regret the question. I carry doubt in my blood DNA. What can I say for myself? Bad experiences are simmering moments. Once you want to get rid of it your self-esteem is already part of the stew.
-Do they eat paella in your country?
-Blake pours me my glass of wine, but not before asking me if the white wine is okay. I nod in agreement.
-Have you come to Spain many times?
-Very few. I lacked the means.
-I understand you perfectly. Flights are skyrocketing.
-It wasn't those means. Did you grow up with your grandmother?
What other means can exist besides the vile metal so that you can't travel?
-Yes.
-And this is your home? -The comment causes me a lot of embarrassment. Economic reasons are not the only ones that caused me not to change the furniture. A part of me is not ready to let her go.
-Can I have some bread? -A week of living together can be a long or short time depending on the issues that are brought to light.
-I didn't mean to be indiscreet.
-This was her house. My grandmother was my only family. I answer as Blake accepts it, topping up my drink in strict silence. It's not for you. I'm sorry. It's just that I've been telling the same thing for so many years that my brain goes into automatic mode when it comes to motherhood. My name is Sofia, my grandmother raised me and I don't have a mother.
-Do you usually work on Sundays? -I appreciate the change of subject.
-They asked me as a replacement and I accepted.
We both chewed in deadly sepulchral silence. I'm sorry to have broken the friendly climax, but in my mother's matters dodging represents peace of mind for me.
-So, your Sunday is fine?
I smile and shake my head.
-The truth is that it was anything but good.
-What happened?
-An unimportant trifle.
-I like your nonsense. I'm sorry. I'm sorry... -he says, picking up the dishes. I meant tell me about it and I'll assess whether or not it's nonsense.
-Is that cheesecake? I love cheesecake.
-I know. Anthony told me about it. Authentic American Cheesecake made by me. He says, raising his cheeks, giving me mortal tachycardia.
I stretch out my fingers to pick up the spoon when it hits my hand like a mother to a thieving child.
-Either you tell me or there is no cake.
-It's not fair. I stretch my lips in anger.
-You do it yourself," he says as he puts a spoon to his lips and swirls it around in his mouth. At this moment I envy the spoon. Do you want some?
Do I want some? I'd like to tell him what I want to do with that cake and his mouth.
-I'm waiting. My God, she's hot. What do you say? Are you going to tell me?
-You serve.
Blake is happy with his triumph. What can I say? Regarding cheesecakes and cotton candy, I have no morals.
-You don't trust?
I wait for him to serve me a good slice before I start my story. We don't know each other well enough to trust my cheesecake to his good intentions.
-It turns out that today I came across one of those posters: " Study with us Communication Sciences and get ready for a world of adventures". A billboard with a lot of meters high assuring the road to success. I wanted to pound it.
-Adventures... world... triumph...
-Exactly.
-I like the story. He says as he pops another piece of cheesecake into his mouth. If he knew how distracting my full lips were, he'd think twice before provoking. These pretty boys don't know what a girl short on opportunities is capable of.
-Why are you smiling?
-My nonsense. As I was saying, if I'd had a spray can I would have written graffiti making it clear where success can go. I am a journalist. And not just any journalist. Mine is pure vocation," Blake's eyes twinkle with interest. I was a class valedictorian. I even had a crush on the documentation and organizational communication professors. Maybe it was my good behavior rather than my cognitive abilities, but I certainly stood out. No small feat at a public university. Blake nods and I feel inspired to continue.
-The truth was that most of the professors predicted my successful future. I still remember when the internship department called me to present me with the honor of my first job. What can I say, that morning I settled down at Rosi's salon to get one of those super cool hairdos with ringlet curls -Blake furrows his brow-. We girls like it and I'm too normal not to get outside help.
-You are anything but normal," he shakes his head and I wonder if what he just said is good or bad. I prefer not to ask. Broken hearts are full of unsolicited sincerity.
-I was happy with my curls in the wind heading towards Gran Via when the large steps at the foot of Primark street invited me to enter. For a few euros a triumphant maroon pencil skirt and a virginal white shirt dived into my bag.
-Virginal white?
-Yes, well, complementary metaphor. As I was saying, I was with hope circling my forehead when, turning right down Montera Street, I saw them.
-Did you see him? -Who?
-I saw them. Plural. And if you interrupt me I won't continue," I shove a spoonful of the best cheesecake in my mouth as I give it to myself as interesting. It's not every time you have a playboy cover boy engaged in your conversation. Moments like this one are worth lasting forever.
-I'm sorry. He continues.
-Is that chocolate liqueur? -This boy is perfect.
I clear my throat so that the hoarse voice of a girl desperate for a hot guy doesn't show.
-Information provided by Anthony.
-Remind me not to tell him anything.
-Now who's holding up the story?
-All right," I say, craning my neck to get into a newsreel editor's position, "Manolis shoes, original replica just like the ones Carrie wore in Sex in New York, when she walked into the Madison Avenue coffee shop to meet the super sexy Mr. Big!
-Mr. Big, do you like it?
-Do I like him? -Are you kidding? That man melts my bones.
-Morenos. Interesting.
What did he mean?
-Yes, well, dressed in my best clothes I said to myself: , here I come! And I went... Ten hours later with bruised feet and sitting eating a ham sandwich on the landing of a sidewalk with well-fed pigeon droppings, the day began to take on a shitty chocolate tinge. And not just one day - four! Those were the days that, sitting in front of the house of the daughter of the niece of the friend of the folklorica, who had not sung for as many years as I had been breathing, held me captive. The skirt that at first I thought was sexy turned out to be a prison for my numb thighs. I think if a snail and a geisha had played me a race I would have come in second place. The snail and the geisha would have shared the podium for reckless speed.
-Nooo...
-I swear I tried. Above my professional dignity, I prepared the questions as if the character was the president of the UN himself. And believe me, it was not easy. The interns of all the pink press of Madrid and beyond the Manzanares were waiting at the foot of the street. In our new-smelling clothes we dragged stubby hood microphones. The light material is reserved for permanent contracts with more than five years of experience.
There we were, me and my camera. That is, the boy with the face of five joints a day and ten on weekends, and me, waiting for the famous friend of the sister of the cousin of the stepson's cousin, or whatever that woman was, of the tonadillera who no longer sings.
Auntie, I do this job for the contacts and for the parties. Fuck, Auntie! Last week I snuck into the Gabana. I went on quite a bender. The cameraman, he didn't need to swear. Anyway, without unnecessary distractions, let's just say I stayed alert. Information, like happiness, is hunted. In my position I waited expectantly for my moment. The first one to extract a statement from La Paca would have the super scoop. What scoop? How should I know? If the woman could speak four words at a time, we would have enough to clap our hands with our ears. La Paca, whose ethnicity is still unidentifiable, and recurrent visits to the Soto prison for petty theft in supermarkets and makeup stores, was a woman of a small vocabulary. Those who know her say that she and the tonadillera of mastered coplas met in unclear circumstances in a brothel for unstable couples. In short and without deviating from the essential, it seems that Lola, Dolores Remedios Ortiz's commercial name, alias "la tonadillera", had a new boyfriend. New boyfriend! Now that was news. After the previous one was busted for looting the town hall of a small town on the Costa Brava, she has not been seen again with anyone. And the exact information about the new Prince Charming was in the possession of La Paca! And with a photo included. The at my fingertips. My eyes were sparkling with silver stars. My first job and a great scoop caressing my fortune. All I needed was a statement. And La Paca knew it.
-What happened? -Blake asks, pouring another glass of chocolate liqueur. One so good that by now it has managed to loosen my tongue.
-For days La Paca lay there without sticking her neck out of the doorway. Four days! The wretched woman must have eaten stale bread because she didn't even go near the landing -Blake laughs and I enjoy feeling that I am the owner of her undivided attention-. In the press, the economic value is in the long hours of waiting. And Paca, a connoisseur of the world of sentimental resale, managed the times like no other. In short, the sun was shining on the fourth day of custody in front of her house when, at exactly quarter past three in the afternoon, I was having my tortilla sandwich for lunch, and I told my grandmother a thousand times that the tortilla sandwich has to be well cooked, but of course, since whoever controls the stove has the power? -I was sitting there with my legs stretched out like canes, not because I wanted to, but because I had to, with my skirt tied up, peeling the sandwich from the silver paper as if it were a banana so that the egg wouldn't make me lose it, when the unexpected happened. Yes, open your eyes because you won't believe it.
-La Paca.
-I'm not going on now. You're really blowing it Blake.
-Excuse me, please. My hair is standing on end," he says, pointing to his right arm and causing me to smile radiantly this time. Please continue.
-It's okay. It turns out that La Paca opened the door to the building. By the way, a building from the eighties that was cleaned for the last time at the end of the same season. My cameraman shrieked out loud. Come on, Aunt! It's La Paca! That same cameraman who, on the day she was born, instead of a loaf of bread under her arm gave her parents a marijuana plant, shouted at me as if the world did not exist. To me, and to the thirty interns who, like me, threw their sandwiches in the air.
-No...
-I can only tell you that my hair never went back to the way it was. Battered calamari and chorizo a la vizcaína fell from the air like rice at an ex-boyfriend's wedding -Blake stretches his neck in intrigue-. Without order and with an excess of bad taste.
-But how!
-In an advertising aside, I have to advise you: Never buy tube skirts if the fabric is not very elastic .
-Blake takes a sip of liquor and I'm distracted by the sweetness glistening on his hot lips.
-How to describe the following. My sandwich also flew through the air as a gesture of solidarity with his food companions. Trying to pick myself up off the floor, the pieces of potatoes, which were not wearing a tube skirt, fell swiftly on my person before I could get to my feet. The winner was undoubtedly the egg, being liquid... you know. With superhuman cunning I dodged much of what may well have been the beginning of my own attack. I spun like a stuck silkworm and dodged almost all of the yolks. Almost almost. Did I tell you that tube skirts should be banned?
Auntie, what are you doing? Said the idiot with my camera as he filmed me. me! Rolling around on a filthy floor next to chunks of nibbled sausage. I feel like a little mermaid, you idiot! I shrieked angrily. There are men who were not born to think.
-Sea. Blake raises his glass of liquor high.
-To be honest, I have to say that the poor guy tried. Not so his brain, which was still smoking along with Bob Marley. At the same time, the Manolis, who according to the seller were twins of the originals from Sex and the City, decided to participate in the party. They were probably twins, but from different fathers, because when I forced them to lever them and tried to stand up, the right heel disappeared behind the microphone of the Madrid en Rosa intern. It didn't take long for him to denounce me for attempted murder. The slip, far from lifting me off the floor, ended up forcing me to crawl over my previously virginal blouse, which as a result of the misfortune was showing its disgrace of oil with paprika all over my boob. The poor thing never went back to the way it was. I am referring to the shirt.
Blake is enjoying himself and, to tell the truth, so am I.
-The hand! I shouted at the asshole who finally let go of the joint to help me straighten up. When I finally managed to get my body upright and in a perfect vertical line, I started running with one foot forward and the other flying in the air for lack of a heel. Not even a flamingo begging me not to leave him would have done it with the same grace. With the elegance I no longer possessed, I approached the group of companions who were pressing La Paca against the glass of the door. By dint of my elbows I tried to make my way through. Screeching like drunken crickets, they did not realize that every weakness brings its own strength. And with the advantage of being lame on one foot I was able to bend down and press my way through with my head in the middle of the microphones. Like a phoenix I reappeared at the nerve center of the information. That is, the glass of the portal and La Paca.
Paca! Paca! What do you know about the new boyfriend?
Paca! Do you confirm that there is love at the door?
Paca! Paca! Please! Here, for the Pink Hearts! Is there going to be a wedding?
My looks were a mess, but what's a little egg and potato on the head when the embraces you. Mine was real investigative journalism.
Paca! Paca! I shouted with such eagerness as my companions graciously made way for me between the buses. They didn't want to stain themselves with the remains of uncooked egg. Their vocation was not as intense as mine.
Paca! They say you have proof that your friend Lola is...
The question was a good one. It had information from Wikipedia itself! I had worked it out. And that's what the blonde from Besos y Atardeceres must have thought, as she had been pointing her envious nose at me for three days. The coward when she saw that I had caught La Paca's attention, she died of rage. Not happy with her defeat, she nailed a heel on my foot half supported. And considering that silent suffering was never my thing, let's say that the question I started to ask Paca did not end very well. It went something like this.
Paca! They say you have proof that your friend Lola is... The whore!
Blake's laughter echoes through the room. I smile too. After a year and a half it's even funny.
-Didn't you try again? In journalism, I mean.
-I quit. -Another glass of chocolate liqueur?
-How about ice cream?
-Did you buy ice cream?
-I said I was waiting for you?
-If you get me used to this, I won't let you go.
-I have no intention of going anywhere," Blake's eyes bore into mine and I choke. Why did you quit journalism?
-What follows is an unoriginal story. Studies, although public, cost their own. My grandmother needed me and my work and I would have given my life for her.
Blake begins to pick up the dishes. Clearly I've just broken up a nice moment. I help him with the glasses and spoons. When I see that there's nothing left in the living room, I wonder if I should say goodbye or stay. I head for my room. After all, he doesn't show much interest in continuing our moment either.
-By the way...
-Yes? -I retrace my steps with exaggerated speed.
-I need you to report to the agency an hour earlier tomorrow. Can you do it?
-Yes. Why?
-You have a contract waiting for your signature.
-How?!
He sits relaxed on the couch before speaking.
-Your work on the web is magnificent, and I, like your teachers, consider your potential to be interesting. Very interesting.
-But... but... but...
I'm stuck for words. I've believed for days that the offer was Anthony's mistake. Blake stands up holding me by the shoulders.
Sofia, would you like to work in the agency with me as my right-hand man?
-What!
I jump in place so high that Blake is forced to hold me by the waist. I've had too much chocolate liquor.
-Is that a yes?
-Yes. -Of course you do. Thank you.
-To you.
-Me? I think you've got me confused," I say, imitating that little American flair he retains when speaking Spanish.
-You. And it's not a mistake," he answers, tucking my hair behind my right ear. For a few seconds he loses himself in me. I hold his gaze. I'm lost in him too.
Can it be? My heart drums our wedding march. His fingers pause by my ear. A frozen second next to my skin where it seems it's...
-Good night. He turns and disappears behind the door of his room.
No, it wasn't. I plop down on the couch. I'm not his type. I have to try not to think of him as anything more than what he is. A nice guy. At least as far as I'm concerned.