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 have not seen it. To that 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 do not believe you! What a waste ...

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

-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 Practical Activities room, when the gouge went off on my index finger; and while the bigger one fainted with the blood on the wooden cart, she took off the black band that she used as a diadem and in a moment she cut the blood drain and covered my finger.

That look would have remained in my memory forever, beautiful, with white cheeks and a fearful smile, with a wild lock of hair covering his face for lack of the bincha and his eye looking at me almost with the left eyebrow. He could not remember her with any other clothes than his white shirt and blue patterned skirt, but it did not take him to remember anything else because love at that time was in his 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 went to bed on the platform and it was impossible to take my face away from my memory. I closed my eyes and saw her in the false ceiling sky, opened them and vanished in 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. Social Studies class with its annoying question of the first hour, deadly nerves for being the next, to be exhausted the easy questions, stress for a presumed scholar who seemed to know them all and a tremendous desire to urinate that caused the sarcastic laughter of the Elementary proficiency. Then he passed 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 became aware of what it was to be in love. I breathed breathlessly, not air but a mixture of knives that pierced my pharynx, tearing the knot in my windpipe and stamped my lungs in spectacular whiplash. It was fatal but at the same time succulent, I felt that his eyes were in my blood, and without further ado I answered the little piece of paper.

"It's better, thanks to someone."

He did not answer me, he did not see me again all morning. I was afraid it had not come, I felt a terrible idiot, to the degree 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 returns with everything and truck to shoot her down. Just that happened in the afternoon, when she asked me to borrow the English notebook, and she returned it to me with a little card artistically folded, pasted on top with colored pencil scratch, with two initial interspersed letters that definitely said what was for me I put it in my pocket and endured desperately the three hours that seemed like an eternity, with blows to the heart, itching in the ribs and a mixture of erection with great desire to urinate. That was the beginning of a coming and going of letters in which he spent an hour in writing of the soul, half in doing it again with Larousse in hand and a whole day to wait for an increasingly compromising response.


It's funny, it was the 3 of the early morning, and our talk was a mixture of being asleep remembering a fantastic past with being awake conversing pleasantly. Until that moment, we never talked about our current lives.

But that only seemed to be a sequence from the innocent side of the heart. We laughed to conclude that I never asked him to be my girlfriend, and we did not stop being one either. There was no procession, there were no waiting, proof of sincerity, there were no consultations to the pillow, fasts, deals, agreements or a return stick. We never knew the moment that our letters were taking a metaphorical side around everyday issues but that we knew without having agreed to it, they contained compromising meanings; a language in a unique key, which was born with the little finger and ended with the mousse melting in my mouth ...

A kind of evasion of the impossible prevented us from asking things that 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 early morning when there are hardly any cats on the roof and whistles of late night watchmen, we agreed to see each other the next day 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 I bathed twice, I brushed my teeth one, another and again, I gargled with the iodized rinse and spent almost forty minutes with the gelatin in front of the mirror to diminish the gray hairs of life. Nerves, discomfort, despair, just like in those days; I had the intention of sending a message but I regretted the fear of breaking down the thing or the feeling that it was intercepted by someone else ... someone else ... another person ...

I slept a couple of hours, in a choppy dream. It was a strange feeling of wanting to run away and the calm that produced the look of that girl on the court, with the tip of his tongue gently brushing the upper lip. With his eyes half open, cute, but gone in the effort to concentrate all the taste buds to discern The foam at 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 woke up and inevitably remembered her eyes closed, her brows furrowed with passion when they gave us the order to finish that third kiss, her hands pressing my back to keep from letting go and the tickle that produced her soft bite 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.

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