When he started calling and e-mailing I thought it was just a continuation of what we had started at school, I never imagined it would turn into something more serious. I hardly gave any importance to his not so often calls, his occasional mails, being stubbornly busy myself, trying to call the attention of a former school mate I had recently met in the 86-Class Reunion. R1 was persistent. He was the kind of man who gets what he wants no matter how. But he was slow, easy, stealthy and steady. He never forced his way into my life, oh no, he just became part of my life. A friend. A chatter. A flirty friend. A charming chatter. A permanent presence. We started going out. To the movies, to have hundreds of cups of coffee --until we became conoisseurs and chose OUR coffee spot and table and chairs--, to have lunch, to the park, to exchange writings, and to read to each other. Suddenly I found myself planning Sundays "on my own", that is reserving them for him, to spend them together. My daughter used to live with me. She visited her father on Sundays. I asked him to pick her as early as possible.
Once, while looking for some information to prepare a class, he appeared on msn. We started chatting. I went to bed really late, for my standards in those days. It soon became a habit. We settled an hour. If there was a connection problem, he would call me home or to my mobile. We could not spend so many hours there. He had problems at his home. He didn't want anybody there to know what was going on. Neither did I, it would be too complicated to explain. For his family, for my daughter. Not easy to understand, not here, not now.
He asked me for my poetry and I asked him for his. But what I really write, what I have been devoted to since I was a young girl, is my diary. He asked me my college diaries, he wanted to read me when I was a twenty year old. I was reluctant. I write openly in my diaries, to read them, and to learn from them, but mainly to tell someone, something, what has been going on. I started re-reading them to check for censorable material. What I found amazed me, and at the same time saddened me, but it also challenged me. I used to be a young woman with goals, high goals. I wanted to write for a living. I wanted to be famous and to eat the world. I was a bubbly and spunky girl, full of projects and energy. Where had all that gone? I had become a school teacher, a mother, a housewife. I had stopped writing constantly for almost 11 years due to my housewife and mother and teacher chores. I had been engulfed in a role I had never wanted. When I started re-reading my diaries I wanted to cry, I was ashamed of myself. I became determined to recover myself.
During my marriage, I had become sloppy with myself. I had stopped wearing make up, doing my nails, waxing, plucking my eyebrows, taking care of my hair. I had gained weight. I had even stopped wearing my contacts. R1 had somehow seen through all of this, and had fallen in love with the enthusiasm I had while teaching. He also loved my hair, my eyes. He wanted to smell me, he loved my perfume. With him I felt beautiful, and the desire to be beautiful was born again in me. I dyed my hair, I had it cut while it grew into a more luscious style, I bought make up again, I did my nails as I used to. I was me again. I had left myself so abandoned that when my daughter saw me in high heels, she was surprised and asked me, "Who are you and what did you do to my mother?"
"I am your mother. This is me, not that humbug you used to live with."
I could tell she was confused but fascinated.
I felt glamorous, beautiful, proud of being me.
I would look at the other women at work. Some of them younger, taller, curvaceous, sexy, but I felt I had something extra that nobody had. As R1 used to tell me, "If you could see yourself through my eyes." I started watching through his eyes, and I saw things I had never seen.
I wrote again. My diary, my dear, dear diary became my constant companion, registering every moment of my life, of my life with him. I wrote poems I had never ever attempted before, they just poured out of my mind. I had to wake up to grab them and not lose them. Short stories sprung at everything. I carried another little notebook to jot down images, ideas, pieces of conversations, everything. I was bubbling, boiling with creativity. His youth was infectious, he was so full of life. For once there was no point in dreaming. I just couldn't sleep. I was too happy, if there can be such a state. I wouldn't eat. I couldn't stand still.
My daughter couldn't help but notice something was going on with me. I was happy. At least I had stopped suffering, I had stopped crying. I was laughing, I was glad, I was silly, I was busy. I was alive!
He had applied to The Esmeralda School of Arts. He had been rejected. He was appalled, but not for long. He decided to study on his own. Then, the idea of getting something out of his self -studying occurred to him. He decided to organize an exhibit of his paintings. He set a time limit, and decided to paint a specific amount of paintings a week. He asked me to go to the exhibit a month before. I had time to buy shoes, clothes, have my hair cut and dyed my original black. The night of the exhibit I was simply gorgeous. I mixed with the rest of the guests. Nobody knew what was going between us, except his cousin Carlos. We would exchange glances now and then. We were very discrete. He looked sexy, happy, confident, triumphant. He sold twelve out of fourteen paintings. He started his own bank account! I was so proud!
Christmas was coming and a time to be with the family. Each other's families. We knew we were going to be separated for a few days. He asked me by msn when would I invite him to sleep over. I told him it had to be while my daughter was spending her holidays with her father. I answered that on the 26th. He told me he was being serious. "So am I," I answered.
He came on the 26th. We went out to buy a bottle of Port. We came back to my apartment. He had brought movies, CDs, books. We watched, we read, we listened. We got hungry. We ordered a Hawaiian pizza. It's funny how young people love those ones. We ate and watched something else. It was getting late. He started kissing me --shyly, softly, carefully, as if I were made of a very delicate crystal. I started crying. I was afraid, nervous. I hadn't been with someone for a long time then. He asked me tenderly, "What is it? What's wrong? There's no problem. We should be able to do what we want. You want it. I want it too. We had been wanting it for long. I am so happy!" He knew how to speak to me. I let myself go. He was so inexperienced I felt like a virgin. It was a first time for me. Another first time. My first time, he had been very experienced and forceful. This second first time he barely knew what to do, I was the experienced one, and I was afraid of knowing too much, of doing too much, of being too old, of breaking illusions. But I touched heaven, because it is not a matter of expertise, but of feelings, of expression, of communion. We watched another movie. In the sexy scene we started making out again. We went to bed and ended up breathless and sleepy. He slept. I didn't. He snored. But that was not what kept me awake. I was awake because I couldn't believe I had him there by my side. His perfect body --strong, firm, his beautifully round butt, his youth pouring through sinewsly. Again, one stops dreaming when reality is better, oh, so much better.
I became addicted. Depending on his calls, his mails, his presence every Sunday. Once we went downtown. We passed by Bellas Artes and I told him, "One day I'll come to see your paintings there. It will be raining and you will be out tired of all the people inside."
"Why will it be raining?" He asked.
"Because I like rain!" I answered
We laughed. We went to see books at the Gandhi library, we went to the Popular Arts museum, we had lunch at Burger King, but I could tell he was fed up. He didn't say anything, and that precisely, told everything. He was silent. Moody. Somehow being with me was no longer enough, or maybe it was too much. We used to be together for a few hours on Sundays. That Sunday in particular we had been together for more than nine hours! Too much for him. I could tell.
Back home he remained silent staring at the void space. I was also tired. Too many people and heat tire me beyond tolerable limits. Still, he walked me home. Next Monday he texted me to say he was not logging on because he was going out with his cousin. Ok, no problem. Next day, about 20.00 I became excited, time to chat was coming. I didn't know if he was going to log on or not. I texted him asking. I could tell from his short, dry answer he didn't want to. And as we were chatting he told me, "I don't want to have to see you every Sunday. I don't want to report to you." I was confused. He had started all these habits.
I got very anguished, and I decided to cut the relationship a few days after. We met so we could gave back our belongings, books and cds we has exchanged. I was expecting a quick here-you-are sort of final meeting. But this kid always took me by surprise. He wanted me to be a friend. He told me, with wet eyes, that although the romance had ended, he wanted the friendship to continue. He begged me to please be there. I was moved. When I end up a relationship, I end it up for good. What he was proposing was something totally out of my habits. However, I accepted. I didn't want the relationship to end either. I didn't want to lose those big, sad, brown eyes and the way they used to see me.
But the relationship ended. We met on msn again after a year. We agreed to meet to have a cup of coffee. We had a good time. We avoided talking about who we used to be. He is now a student at the Esmeralda School of Arts. He made it. He always got what he wanted. The problem is that now he does not know what he wants.
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