You’re not a mystery, exactly. Nor enigmatic. It’s just that your hard drive is internal. You have no flashing lights. You look better in pants than you think. You like some of the songs that we like. You like some other songs that we pretend not to like. You don’t even pretend to like Springsteen. (What’s the matter with you?) If you follow a sport, it’s probably football. If you have a sin, it’s probably salt, not chocolate.
Daffodils, not roses. You remember which one of us you kissed first; we remember you, too. You think we kissed you, but you kissed us. You cheat as much as we do, which is too bad for us, because we’re more trusting. Your peak, in all things, is forty-four years of age. That’s not to say you weren’t hot when you were younger: You were a knockout at twenty-six. The funny thing about you is, you think you’re hotter now, so you are. However, you give a worse massage than you think you give. (Don’t get us wrong, we’re not complaining.) You’re more patient than we are, but your patience is far from infinite, and your rage, once triggered, runs deeper. You know how to hold a grudge. And yet you’ll stick with us for longer than is sensible for you.
You call them your tits, just like the rest of us do. You’re more attracted to Sean Penn than you care to admit.
Your heart beats faster than ours yet you live longer. That doesn’t make any sense. You have better balance, but you can’t hold your breath as long. You were born and you will die with the same forehead.
You’re not that funny. You’d like to go for a drive to Chicago this weekend, but you’ll settle for Kansas City. You like to eat. Fuck it, then. Eat. You look better to us when you drink beer out of the bottle, when you play bass guitar in an otherwise all-male band, when you wear cotton briefs rather than a thong, and when you wear clear nail polish or none at all. You also look awesome in a flannel shirt. Apparently, you look best to us when you look like a man –specifically, a drunk lumberjack with rhythm. That doesn’t make any sense, either.
The Catholic-schoolgirl thing is hard to explain but, absolutely, yes.
You first broke a boy’s heart in the seventh grade. You probably don’t even know you did it, but you definitely did. You sat in the front of the class, close to Mrs. Murney, and we sneaked sideways glances at you when we went to sharpen our pencils. Then one day we all went on a ski trip, and on the way home you sat beside us on the bus, and you put your head on our shoulder and we thought we had a chance, but you were just tired from skiing. You looked cute in a stocking cap.
You liked Jason instead. You need to stop pretending your cat can spell phonetically. You might be able to fool boys, but you can’t fool men. Your boyfriend is a boy. You’re not as desperate to get married as the movies make you out to be. If you have children and someone has wronged them, you’re just as capable of violence as we are. The difference is, you would use a knife. You would look better either without your tattoo or with more of them. You’ve felt sicker to your stomach then we have. You’re nicer to us than we are to you. But we’re nicer people.
You’ll still catch yourself wondering what your life would have been like with him long after we’ve forgotten about her. You hope it will be something quiet and minor and peaceful and slow, too. You’ll miss us when we’re gone, but not as much as we would miss you. Maybe that’s why we die first. Your hearts beat faster, but they have less blood to push.
No voy a vivir pour la galerie, esto es mío y no importa lo que pasa allá afuera.
∞ cosas que te contaría a vos primero, primicias para el amor: que me quiero tatuar mantras en el cerebro, que mi cuerpo está tibio –aunque más frío que antes– que todavía me duele la rodilla por caerme en la nieve, aunque los otros golpes de esos días duelen más; solo vos sabés cuáles, vos entendés cuánto.
28. El 2 era mi número favorito. “Era”, verbo y the end of an. Solo quedan pretéritos. Ahora te pido que me dejes en paz pero ya no depende de vos, cuando todo es vos: todas las canciones, todos los textos, todos los olores, todos los discos & post-its too, todos los Hornbys y cada puta serie. Todos los restaurants, todo lo rico, lo intangible también, cada dolor, cada nudo en la garganta. El sobre amarillo en mi teléfono, la lucecita colorada –gracias por nunca pelearme por decirle así– (aunque sé que no sos vos, excepto esa noche en la que no quería -o no hacía falta- que seas vos, y eras, pero no eras vos; era odio y destrucción y palabras que salían de alguien que no eras vos dirigidas a alguien que no era yo), el timbre de mi casa, la calle de atrás, tu nueva esquina y ese edificio inexplicable en todo sentido.
Me estoy portando tan bien que no me reconozco, seguro vos tampoco y quizás (no seguro) te preguntes dónde quedó el soldado del amor que me poseía.
Todo lo que te dije -escribí- fue sincero, aunque una parte de mí todavía quiera pedirte que me vengas a buscar. Me estoy portando bien.