The meeting, in short, was unappetizing. That café, decorated with gypsies, gave me the unpleasant sensation of being surrounded by the destitute scenery of some video of Shakira in the nineties. From a hole with ideals of door, they fell like careless hair, a pair of golden garlands.
I felt nauseous. A lady with archaic features, filth on the nails and warts on her chest, nail from the bar, her gaze grotesquely on my member, while, in sexual ways, she dragged a brown capuchin in a disheveled attempt to keep the place.
I felt in a low-income vintage porn scene. My grandparents or, in any case, my great-grandparents, would have materialized a thousand fantasies in front of that scenario. Andrea approached the table and for the moment, her face seemed anonymous. A face in mute. Traits of Andrea disguised as a junkie. His hair looked at his skins, oozed liters of wine and cocaine. For the moment, his voice seemed like an archipelago. His breath desultory, hit my face and evaporated in my nostrils. << Hi Fer >> he said with reluctance. As if the soul had been stolen. The presence of this past woman, although invoked by my eagerness, made me uncomfortable. Andrea was a band-aid in memory.
A damp cloth lying on the fever of my memories. Beige shirts and badges of schools merged in my head. << You're done shit Andre >>. I said to say something, trying with crude movements, disguise the amazement. << What the fuck, Madrid made me shit >>. So it seems, I thought. The exile made the most beautiful chama of the lyceum, a jumble of dark circles, dry skin and unpleasant odors. A gentle silence was established. I lit a cigarette. The cancer then, after the second pull, tapped painfully in the lower part of the left lung. I felt the metastasis. << Then Fer - she said with the look on the moon - to which the reunion comes what brings you to Madrid? >>.
With meditation, I brush her pink tongue over the edge of the old brown rate in an attempt, unsuccessful, to avoid spilling a drop of her latte macchiato. His words came in slow motion. I came to Madrid to be able to catch you Andrea, I wanted to say. To fuck you for thirty hours in the bed of some filthy motel step. To conclude the evil desire of a youth without flavor, of nervous and shameful memories. For the simple desire to realize an insignificant fantasy of beardless and decomposed youth.
Everything stayed in my thoughts. My clumsy nervousness began to secrete drops of sweat that ran down my back. Last milestone of Belmont. Cancer is now positioned in my heart. Take a cold air truck. << I'm dying Andrea. I have cancer. I came to make love to you >>. Andrea then, smiled.
