Often, passion wins; it only knows how to burn, and that's how stories and souls intertwine. The first kiss, the passion of desire, the place, the least romantic, the furthest from perfection: a bar bathroom. Smells of stale beer, cheap perfume, red lights flashing like a danger signal just a breath away. Everything in that moment seems like spontaneous combustion. Her name is Abril, Abril with a B like the name of the month in Spanish; his name is Dean, a short name, a simple one. They weren't young, but they refused to grow old, trying to make the clock stop for at least a few moments each night. They didn't know how to grow old, they didn't want to grow old, and from that kiss on, they always awaited the next night and the next fire that would be extinguished the next morning.
With each word, Abril undressed, removing a piece of clothing to dress in one of insecurity, as always in her life, willing to give more than she received. Dean's hands trembled when he touched something he cared about, and with April, his hands seemed more like dancing than shaking. They fell in love the way those who win battles and lose wars fall in love: with fear, but without restraint.
Months of fire in the kitchen, of arguments in the living room, promises made strong and quickly fallen, their voices low so no one could hear the cries of their hearts.
"Loving him is like loving fire," April said to her best friend.
"Whoever plays with fire usually gets burned?"
April knew that fire can't be eternal, it can't stay, it consumes, destroys, and goes out, it goes out...
Dean loved obsessively, he possessed his favorite toy like a child. Fire needs to consume oxygen to grow stronger. Humans need oxygen to breathe. You can't live with fire, even if it gives you the warmth you need. In the midst of the fire, April was losing her oxygen.
"Who are you talking to?" Dean would ask, while the following week he made April's phone disappear just to check her messages.
The following week:
"Why are you taking so long to answer?"
April had always been free, and in that freedom lay her happiness and that smile Dean loved so much. Little by little, it began to fade, like a candle. She dressed differently, talked less, didn't dance.
One night, April arrived late. She had been to dance class, something Dean couldn't stand anymore and had tried to stop many times.
"Why are you dancing? You haven't had a stage for a long time," Dean said.
April looked at him sadly, as if she didn't recognize him, as if wondering where the person she fell in love with was.
"I dance so I don't kill myself," April replied.
The fight lasted for hours, hours of shouting accompanied by the sound of broken dishes, tears running down cheeks, unsure if they were from anger or sadness. In the end, Dean left... but he came back, because when the fire dies out among the ashes, the embers remain, and if nurtured, they can gain strength, they can burn again.
April didn't know how to live without him, but she didn't want to learn either. Letters that were never sent began to appear on his desk. One read:
"I don't know if what I feel is love or an elegant way to die." "You're teaching me to hate what used to be my happiness."
Dean, for his part, began to seek refuge in mixtures of unknown chemicals and the bottoms of whiskey glasses, which mixed with enough force to course through his entire body the instant they entered, shaking him to his foundations and making him feel alive. Sometimes he would arrive home in the early morning and look at Abril as if she were a stranger, as if he felt a mixture of repulsion and shame. Sometimes he would hug Abril as if it were the last time he'd ever see her.
One morning, Abril woke up; he was sleeping beside her. Abril put on her red dress, the one she only wore to performances, and danced alone in the living room, without music, without an audience, just the sound of her footsteps. Dean got up and watched her from the hallway. He didn't say anything. He went back to bed, lit a cigarette, and didn't smoke. He watched the flame burn. He knew that with the cigarette, his house was burning and he couldn't save it.
The next day, Abril was gone. There was no note, no scandal. Her things disappeared, along with the photograph of them when they used to laugh.
Dean didn't look for her, even though he wanted to. He knew finding her would only fan the flames, and he could barely control the smoke.
Months later, he found one of the letters April had left inside a book:
"Dancing with fire is beautiful, but there's no skin left for burns. I'm leaving before it's just ashes."
Dean turned the letter into ashes and smoke, as he did with everything he touched. He was left with the memory and the mirage of seeing her dance and her voice echoing in his head: don't kill me with your love.
Muchas veces la pasiĂłn nos gana, solo sabe quemarse y asĂ se entrelazan historias y almas. El primer beso, la pasiĂłn del deseo, el lugar, el menos romántico el más alejado de la perfecciĂłn: el baño de un bar. Olores a cerveza rancia, perfume barato, luces rojas que parpadean como señal del peligro a la vuelta de un suspiro. Todo en ese momento parece combustiĂłn espontánea. Ella se llama Abril, Abril con B como el nombre del mes en español, Ă©l se llama Dean, un nombre corto, un nombre simple. No eran jĂłvenes, pero se negaban a envejecer, tratando que cada noche el reloj se detuviera por al menos unos instantes, no sabĂan envejecer, no querĂan envejecer, y desde ese beso siempre se esperĂł la siguiente noche y el siguiente incendio que se extinguirĂa la prĂłxima mañana.
Con cada palabra Abril se desnudaba, se quitaba una prenda de ropa para vestirse con una de inseguridad, como siempre en su vida dispuesta a dar más de lo que recibĂa. Las manos de Dean temblaban cuando tocaba algo que le importaba y con Abril sus manos parecĂan más que temblar bailar. Se enamoraron como se enamoran aquellos que ganan batallas y pierden guerras: con miedo, pero sin frenos.
Meses de fuego, en la cocina, de discusiones en la sala, promesas que se levantaban con fuerza y se caĂan con rapidez, la voz baja para que nadie escuchara los gritos del corazĂłn.
-Amarlo es como amar al fuego- le dijo Abril a su mejor amiga
-¿Quién juega con fuego suele quemarse?
Abril sabĂa que el fuego no sabe ser eterno, no sabe quedarse, consume, destruye y se extingue, se apaga...
Dean amaba con obsesiĂłn, poseĂa como un niño a su juguete favorito, el fuego necesita consumir oxĂgeno para ser más fuerte, los humanos necesitamos oxĂgeno para respirar, no se puede vivir con el fuego aunque te dĂ© el calor que necesitas. En medio del incendio Abril estaba perdiendo su oxĂgeno.
-ÂżCon quiĂ©n hablas?- le decĂa Dean, mientras la siguiente semana hacĂa desaparecer el telĂ©fono de Abril solo para chequear sus mensajes.
la siguiente semana:
-¿Por qué tardas en contestar?
Abril siempre habĂa sido libre, y en esa libertad estaba su felicidad y esa sonrisa que tanto Dean amaba, poco a poco empezĂł a apagarse, como vela, se vestĂa distinto, hablaba menos, no bailaba.
Una noche Abril llegĂł tarde, habĂa estado en su clase de danza, algo que Dean ya no soportaba y que habĂa tratado de frenar muchas veces.
Para que bailas, no tienes escenario hace tiempo- dijo Dean
Abril mirĂł con tristeza, como si no lo reconociera, como si se preguntara dĂłnde estaba la persona de la que se enamorĂł
-Bailo para no matarme -le respondiĂł Abril.
La pelea durĂł horas, horas de gritos acompañado del sonido de platos rotos, lágrimas que corrĂan en mejillas y no sabĂan si aparecĂan por rabia o por tristeza, al final Dean se fue... pero volviĂł, porque cuando el fuego se extingue entre las cenizas quedan las brasas que si se alimentan pueden tomar fuerza, pueden volver a arder.
Abril no sabĂa vivir sin Ă©l, pero tampoco querĂa aprender, en su mesa empezaron a aparecer cartas que nunca fueron enviadas, en una decĂa:
-"No sé si esto que siento es amor o una forma elegante de morir" "Me enseñas a odiar lo que antes era para mi felicidad"
Dean por su parte empezĂł a buscar refugio en mezclas de quĂmicos desconocidos y fondos de vasos de whisky, que se mezclaban con la suficiente fuerza como para recorrer todo su cuerpo en el mismo instante que entraba, lo sacudĂa hasta los cimientos y lo hacĂa sentir vivo. A veces llegaba en la madrugada a su casa y miraba a Abril como si fuera una extraña, como si sintiera una mezcla de repulsiĂłn con vergĂĽenza, a veces abrazaba a Abril como si fuera la Ăşltima vez que la iba a ver.
Una madrugada Abril se levantĂł, a su lado Ă©l dormĂa. Abril se puso su vestido rojo ese que solo usaba en las presentaciones y bailĂł sola en la sala, sin mĂşsica, sin pĂşblico, solo el sonido de sus pasos. Dean se levantĂł y la vio desde el pasillo, no dijo nada, regresĂł a la cama, encendiĂł un cigarrillo y no fumĂł mirĂł la llama arder, sabĂa que junto al cigarrillo su casa ardĂa y ya no la podĂa salvar.
Al dĂa siguiente Abril se fue, no habĂa nota, no habĂa escándalo, sus cosas desaparecieron junto a la fotografĂa de ambos cuando solĂan reĂr.
Dean no buscĂł, aunque querĂa, sabĂa que encontrarla serĂa avivar el fuego y apenas podĂa controlar el humo.
Meses después encontró una de las cartas olvidada por Abril dentro de un libro:
"Bailar con fuego es hermoso, pero no queda piel para quemaduras, me voy antes de que solo sea cenizas"
Dean convirtiĂł la carta en cenizas y humo, como hacĂa con todo lo que tocaba, se quedĂł con el recuerdo y con el espejismo de verla bailar y su voz resonando en su cabeza: no me mates con tu amor.
