The 52 line

It was the 4 of the early morning, after a prolonged conversation that seemed to have no end. Typical years later, -Yes lazy nyeupe au-, the casualties and magic by many satanized social networks had made a miracle almost come out of the Tlön.

The talk started like any adult conversation about 10 at night:

-Love to meet you, so long after ... blah, blah, blah

- ... Yes, I haven't seen her. Yes, I think he lives in the United States ...

- ... you know who died, the one who said fart resentful ... lol, blah, blah, blah.

-Yes. No, Gay? ... I don't believe you !, what a waste ...

23 lines were enough to understand that we have been disconnected, that we are a consequence of circumstances. Then the talk changed stanza but not chorus:

-And what are you doing?

-I also studied high school, then I went to ... blah, blah, blah.

47 empty lines, such as the conversation we would have with a former co-worker or a chance encounter on the plane to exchange miles for saliva.

But the 52 line completely changed the code:

-What a good times…

The tour began in that sector of our hard disk, which defragmentation can not touch, red and with a Letrecilla B. Then he mixed between memory and conversation as a mental map in slightly connected threads, from his first smile in that room of Practical Activities, when the chisel went on my index finger; and while the biggest one passed out with the blood on the wooden cart, she took off the black headband that she used as a headband and in a moment cut the blood leak and covered my finger.

That look would have stayed in my memory forever, pretty, with her white cheeks and her fearful smile, with a wild lock of hair covering her face in the absence of the headband and her eye looking at me almost with the left eyebrow. He could not remember her with other clothes than her white shirt and blue skirt, but it was not necessary to remember something else because love in those times was in the eyes -In those early days, of course-.

That day was magical, while the Jungle Lady looked at my finger in nursing my memory was in that look, and the way she did her little bit when she said:

"Hold on, stronger."

That night, after doing homework in the study hall, I lay down on the platform and it was impossible to remove his face from my memory. I would close my eyes and see her in the false ceiling, open them and fade into a boreal tone Pixilated; I felt pretty to think of her, and I had a strange dream in which I saw her smiling sideways in the distance, in a sunset that RGB #DDA0DD In the horizon he settled on his cheeks and hid himself in dense clouds like a roasted sienna.

The next day everything seemed to return to routine. The Social Studies class with its annoying question from the first hour, deadly nerves to be next, exhaustion of easy questions, stress from a smug scholar who seemed to know them all, and a tremendous urge to urinate that caused the sarcastic laugh of the Elementary proficiency. Then it happened Bocho With the Mathematics class, and then I got a sheet of three chairs in front of me, folded without much grace:

-Good morning my patient, how is the little finger.

I looked up, and she photographed me with the tail of the eye the moment she gave me a slight smile without Azimuth of 32 ° 27 ′ and 42.77".

Then I was aware of what it was to be in love. I took a ragged breath, not air but a mixture of knives that pierced my pharynx, ripping the knot in my windpipe and thrashing my lungs in a spectacular whiplash. It was fatal but at the same time succulent, I felt that his gaze was on my blood, and without further turning I answered the paper.

"It's better, thanks to someone."

He didn't answer me, he didn't see me again all morning. I was afraid that it had not reached him, I felt a terrible idiot, to the point that I totally forgot what I had answered.

But love in those days knocks on the door only once; then as the Governor of Los Angeles, he came back with everything and a truck to tear it down. Just that happened in the afternoon, when she very seriously asked me to borrow my English notebook, and she returned it to me with an artistically folded letter, pastry on top with grated colored pencil, with two initial letters interspersed that definitely said it was for me. I put it in my pocket and endured desperately the three hours that seemed like an eternity, with heartbeats, itchy ribs and a mixture of erection with a great urge to urinate. That was the beginning of a coming and going of little letters in which he spent an hour writing his soul, half doing it again with Larousse in hand and a whole day to wait for an increasingly compromising response.

___________________________

It's funny, it was 3 in the morning, and our talk was a mixture of being asleep remembering a fantastic past with being awake chatting entertainingly. Until then, we never talked about our current lives.

But that only seemed to be a sequence from the innocent side of the heart. We laugh to conclude that I never asked him to be my girlfriend, and we never stopped being one. There was no courtship, there was no waiting, tests of sincerity, there were no consultations to the pillow, fasts, deals, agreements or a stick back. We never knew the moment that our little letters were taking a metaphorical side around everyday issues but that we knew without having agreed they contained compromising meanings; a unique code language, which was born with the finger and ended with the foam melting in my mouth ...

A kind of avoidance of the impossible prevented us from asking things we did not want to hear. We did not ask for the cell phone number, only the mail, it seemed to be enough and, then, at that hour of the morning when cats hardly sound on the roof and the whistles of late-night watchmen, we agreed to meet the next day in a American Express Of San Pedro Sula.

It was then, that I realized what time it was, and in the same feeling of doing Chorromil years ago I bathed twice, brushed my teeth over, over and over again, gargled with the iodized rinse and spent almost forty minutes with the jelly in front of the mirror to reduce the graying of life. Nerves, discomfort, despair, just like in those days; I had the intention of sending him one more message but I regretted the fear of decomposing the thing or the feeling that it was intercepted by someone else ... someone else ... someone else ...

I fell asleep for a couple of hours, in a choppy sleep. It was a strange sensation of wanting to run away and the calm that the look of that girl produced on the court, with the tip of her tongue gently brushing her upper lip. With his eyes half-open, cute, but gone in the effort to concentrate all the taste buds to discern The foam in the umami, Or what was left of this in a recent kiss stolen back from the house where he lived Laura and Baudilio. And then I would wake up and inevitably remember her closed eyes, her eyebrows furrowed with passion when they gave us the order to finish that third kiss, her hands pressing my back so as not to let go and the tickle that her soft bite produced on my upper lip ...

______________________________________

And there I was, sitting at the Expresso table, with my second Moka cup when the little message I was waiting for fell.

"I'm in the parking lot, where are you?"

I looked out the window and a single Turquoise car was parking in reverse.