martes, 6 de noviembre de 2012

Bubble Gum (1/3)


Pop! The sound came first, but it was the smell, the familiar smell that surrounded her after the sonorous pop!, the one that took her flying from the –not-as-uncomfortable-as-she-thought- bus where her bones have been resting for the last couple of hours to her kitchen. Or was it his? It had these yellow spots all over the wall she suspected were from splashed oil; she could definitely remember that, so it should be hers, because his kitchen was sky blue and of a clean almost clinical. Scorching toasts in the frying pan, not by choice, but because her toaster had suffered the crowning accident of a totem built out of the washing machine, microwave, a little oven and on the top of the sculpture, the toaster. He hated to cook at her place, it had not space enough for both when he wanted to prepare gin-tonics in the middle of the day, after spending the whole night watching Lost episodes one after another.

In the evening, around seven o'clock in the afternoon, she used to hug him and in doing so she felt inside a Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrel song. To hear him mutter was like feeling the hum of the rhythm, although she never knew Tammi and Marvin's lyrics by heart. He closed his eyes, falling asleep a few inches from her face and the image always turned blurry in spite of her trying not to lose focus. In these moments, sometimes, she discovered something new. The wrinkles of his permanently furrowed frown, his front teeth, separated by a measly millimeter, barely visible at first glance. Or even his earlobe, a different temperature, in discordance with the rest of his head. Cold. The thickness of each of his dark hairs.

It was funny how at the time she used to fear forgetting his face, although it was not his face exactly, the panic lay in failing to recall the feeling of it, the noisy song of partying floating in the air every time they shared the same room all along. And, yet, there she was, surprised of how she didn't mean at all to forget him until the exact moment the chewing gum popped. In fact, it turned out being so easy...
 
To be continued...

miércoles, 29 de agosto de 2012

Antes o después tendrían que acostarse

Y la microficción de esta semana de El País:

Anhelaba la promesa de una vida mejor, en la que ella fuera mejor persona, por eso sabía que antes o después tendrían que acostarse, para sacárselo de encima, poner a lavar las sábanas, hacer la cama con unas nuevas y esperar a que su novio volviera a casa más tarde que pronto.

http://eskup.elpais.com/*tentacionesmicrorrelatosdeverano

No sabía el porqué de su propia respuesta

Seguimos con las microficciones de El País...
Ésta es de principios de Agosto:

Sobre su cabeza tenía un cementerio de ropa seca, calcetines de un solo uso, colgados, que nunca nadie recogería. Aún no sabía el porqué de su propia respuesta, esa decisión; vivir en un mundo aséptico, sin tiempo ni opción para encariñarse, para coger costumbre.

lunes, 30 de julio de 2012

Estuvo esperándolo todo el día


El momento no estaba lejos y no podía evitar sentirse alerta. Saliendo de su boca con forma de rodajas de melocotón, Te quiero. Estuvo esperándolo todo el día, pero no parecía asomarse, sus labios sellados hasta bien entrada la noche cuando, furtivo y por el sueño, se le escapó.

280 caracteres en Eskup, El País.
http://eskup.elpais.com/1343638248-630def43a8466bed3fefa961ae28cc21

lunes, 23 de julio de 2012

El Gancho de una Percha

Cuando rodeabas con tu brazo mi cintura como si del gancho de una percha se tratase y yo pensaba que esto podía pararse de alguna manera. Sin embargo tu brazo seguía ahí, enganchado, y en consecuencia todo fue demasiado inevitable.

200 caracteres en eskup, El País.
http://eskup.elpais.com/1342607205-9fdca87d4f23a439b7bab6463ca81b69

lunes, 2 de abril de 2012

La propia versión de la verdad

"I told you the truth…Memory’s truth, because memory has its own special
kind. It selects, eliminates, alters, exaggerates, minimizes, glorifies and
vilifies also; but in the end it creates its own reality, its heterogeneous but
usually coherent version of events; and no sane human being ever trusts
someone else’s version more than his own

Midnight’s Children, p. 242
Salman Rushdie

viernes, 23 de marzo de 2012

De pronto descubrir la belleza espontánea

“¿Qué sería de nosotros si se nos apareciese lo divino en otra de sus manifestaciones, si la razón, la virtud y la verdad se nos presentasen en formas, sensibles?. ¿No arderíamos y nos disolveríamos en amor como otra época ante Zeus?”.

Un básico, clásico, preferido, de cabezera, un libro del que poseo (queriendo y sin haber querido) tres copias, obligación a releer cada 5 años, creo que toca en 2012.

La Muerte en Venecia
Thomas Mann