Amanse-o
Other stories of a great affection.
2018
Texts written in Brazilian Portuguese.
The translations were made automatically so that other cultures could at least come close to the lyrical universe.
It had taken more than three times the planned time to reach the destination that had been so eagerly awaited by the anxiety of the previous days. The invitation had come from the mother of the girl he liked. Although the romance had only recently started, he did not refuse the party and accepted the challenge of introducing himself to the girl's family. The challenge. Upset by the delay caused by the bad weather of the urban chaos, although a fan of strange attractions, he had been creating a movie in his head throughout the trip. What if the guests, when interviewing him, asked him his political opinion? He was going to an upscale neighborhood in the big city.
Upon arriving, comfortable with the jokes about his delay, he was not overwhelmed by the interactions. He was having fun. They reserved a space for him to share songs with guitar and various percussion. Finally, he was asked the big question: so, what are your political opinions? He broke out in a cold sweat. He didn't want everything to go down the drain. After all, he had just set foot in an upscale neighborhood in the capital. It could be that they were supporters of the current mayor's administration. At the same time, he thought he couldn't betray his principles, until he spoke. I'm an anarchist. And I don't eat meat. Silence.
At that moment, he could glimpse the expulsion and began to soften his heart for yet another frustrating affair. Anarchist and vegetarian? He could have hidden it, made a joke or faked the fall of the glass of cachaça. But no, and the silence seemed to last forever, consecrating his sweat and the redness of his cheekbones. Until the laughter burst out. It was definitely the end! As he stood up awkwardly, he turned his back to the laughter and bumped into his mother. In black pants. In a red blouse. She said to him: cheers and anarchy! He turned his frightened expression to the guests and they covered the large table with a black flag. The girl he was in love with stole his gaze and winked. And he woke up. At the end of Apiacás.
He shouts from his room to make that famous carrot cake recipe. His friend complies. They were thinking the same thing. After all, he had just bought more than half a dozen carrots.
While his friend was preparing the condiments to go in the oven, the other was greasing the pan. Having offered his tiny help, he returned. He felt the heat inside the room, inserted in that small universe of an embrace. The night was getting warmer. Consequently, the skin. Soon, gradually, the heart. He was panting. It was dismantling itself with each strand of his hair explored by her right hand. They rhythmically intoned their breathing, staring at each other from a matchstick's distance. And that anxiety of wanting to embrace the world was converted into a moment of smallness. As great as or even greater than the other desire. In a couple that observed each other.
How many verses does it take to make a kiss? And the cake was baked. Particularly, as the famous recipe calls for.
The day dawned like this. Just like that. A day of full stop. But without finishing absolutely anything.
The week went on like this. Full of commas. I bet.
Then his shoulders appear, so narrow, so broad, in a body full of self-awareness, but immensely subtle in the humility of a hug. The day dawned again there.
The week went on like this. Hand in hand with longing and anxious for the next hug.
A holiday dedicated to poking wounds. Not that it was planned, but the circumstances called for the desperation to speak. The truth. About both of us. For example. It is true that there is me and you. And from the ways in which the two learned to peel oranges, the difference is also certain. Simple. Different cradles. But suddenly, in the uneven pace of the two breathing times, between inhaling and exhaling, in the attempt to concentrate on running away from the desperation to speak, the truth, there is a pause. A low wall. Perfect to sit on. Perfect for a question. Demanding the truth. Hesitating to omit. The two collapse. Far from knowing that this was just the first conflict of a holiday dedicated to healing wounds.