Year 25
To a Love of My Life:
She rose wrapped by fresh air and draped in white Egyptian cotton. Her bed was surrounded by white. High ceilings. That year (she had developed a habit for moving around town), she lived at The Ocean. Fifth floor.
She looked at the day outside. New York in summer. A quieter than usual city. Saturday at its best. The island finished where she lived. The tip, right there, at The Ocean's footsteps.
Approaching the bathroom she glanced at her reflection. She recalled "I have an appointment today". She washed her face clean. She then methodically showered. Creams perfumed her body. She walked out naked. Picked up a designer dress that hang in the closet. Perfectly dry cleaned. Perfectly fit for summer. She wore her sandals and went to the Salon.
Her mind thought of numbers as her face was massaged. She barely noticed the hands that made her nails pretty. She had come to the world with one mission: to understand everything. Our origin. Our source. Our raison de être. The universe. Its particles. Everything. "A red button", she thought, "I am going to write about a red button." She made a mental note.
She returned home and he was waiting. He sat below the pastels covering the ceiling at the entry of The Ocean. The ceilings of The Ocean were splattered by a bad version of MichaelAngelo's sixtine chappel. Somehow, it worked.
He dressed elegantly too. Light beige linen summer pants. A white and blue striped top. Alpargata zandals. He carried a generic magazine under his arms. They hugged. The guard at The Ocean smiled at the sight.
She asked him upstairs. They took the elevator exchanging glances. They arrived and went in. He loved being inside her home. It made him feel that she was protected. He wanted her safe, happy, at peace, with time and space, to complete her mission. She rampaged through her closet. He looked at the books on the table, on the sofa, at her writings, and thought he should read more.
"Before we leave," he said, "I have to tell you this day has been curated for you and to start it I have a soundtrack to define what lies ahead". He asked her to sit down, he served her a glass of water, and they listened. A Chelo started, a voice continued:
"Don't hold yourself like that cause
You'll hurt your knees
well I kissed your mouth, and back
But that's all I need
Don't build your world around
Volcanoes melt you down
And What I am to you is not real
What I am to you, you do not need
What I am to you is not what you mean to me
You give me miles and miles of mountains
And I'll ask for the sea"
The song ended. They rose. Shut the door.
They left The Ocean and boarded a train. The Ocean had a station right beneath it. When they walked in and sat down in their carriage laughing about the week's tribulations, a young couple of dreamers stormed in and said:
"These violent delights have violent ends
And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,
Which as they kiss consume."
- William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, 2.3
"This was Shakespeare in the Subway, Ladies and Gentleman, have a lovely day."
Amazed, phased, he promised she, she promised he, that they too will be as free someday. The train continued its way to Midtown. They rarely went there.
They sat on a wooden table at a Midtown cafe with a happening crowd. A woman, blond, in outlandish jewels, wrapped in cables, hooked to electronic apparatus, presided this meal. Thirteen people on the table chatted. The woman started handing advice and connecting folks on the table via wired cables. Them two were in silence, just answering with monosyllables when spoken to. The meal was a NY trip and they were enjoying it. They knew the time to leave was coming and there were expectations. He had promised her a surprise for that Saturday. "I have, for you, New York." That is what he said.
And the blond woman networked away, she was a diversion that added to the suspense. They patiently ate bits of bread and finally departed with loads of business cards that felt like cement drying on their hands on that Saturday.
So they walked out, her hand travelled to his arm. She said to him, "que me tienes preparado, oye!" and then she smiled as if she knew the answer. She smiled as if she knew everything. The numbers. The origin. The source.
His arm. Her question. And her grin made him smile inside. He felt nervous, butterflies, will this day be what I expect of it? He knew, at that moment, he loved her, he was in love with her, he wanted to give her his life, the origin, the source, everything.
He walked her deep into Central Park. They approached bushes and out came a canasta he had prepared. In it: champagne, white wine, rose, and green grapes. Enough to drown the city in a summer buss. They walked onto The Pond, got on a boat, her head felt back, she finally sat. Relaxed. In thought. He brought a book of Octavio
Paz poetry, they read out loud.
The boat floated and the champagne opened. "To you, to our 25th year in life, to us, to New York, to our dream completion", he said. She laughed quietly, in disbelief, and she let herself go into the warm New York air. In the green around them she thought if it was possible to control body desire for an afternoon. She wanted the water ripples of the lagoon. In the stories imagined. She wanted the tall building cusps lurking mischeviously and grandly on top of tree tops. "She looks orgasmic", he thought. This might as well be everything I can ask for. This, is, happiness.
They rowed in circles, the sun encircled the boat, the wine drew to a close. They laughed so much. He said he had another surprise for her and they walked down via Manhattan. His favourite corners, his way South. They travelled down and he said: "now I'm going to give you something that should explain what I feel for you. It may be strange but it's how it is". The air did not move.
They arrived to Greenwich Street and they saw the street going up. Pedestals of silver, platinum, rhodium. Up two parallel lines in 55 degree steep climb, just between One Liberty Paza. As if a mountain grew out of Manhattan. And the moon sat aside this road, waiting to be batted away by the white lines separating the traffic lanes, white, metallic, beautiful. It was nighting. They hallucinated.
They walked into a room. He held her hand. She was nervous and ready. She sat and adjusted her hair. She drank sips of water. It became dark. They both starred at the large screen in front. For the next two hours they sat still. Their hands would not touch. Their souls did. They each held to their seat. It was too much. They were there. She cried. She cried so much. He felt alive. That was happiness.
Like a thunder the loudspeakers said to them:
"There is a mysterious ritual that dates back thousands of years. No living creature has survived it except the penguin. They have wings but cannot fly. They're birds that think they're fish. And every year, they embark on a nearly impossible journey to find a mate. For twenty days and twenty nights the emperor penguin will march to a place so extreme it supports no other life. In the harshest place on Earth loves finds a way."
The sound ended. The lights dim. They sat with each other. There. Then. They always will.
