Her skin had become a silk fabric floating loosely around her muscles and bones; at least that was the way it felt. Three nights had gone by since that night, and it was the morning after when her skin had started feeling strange: like something very delicate which could be easily hurt even by the softest of touches; like something ethereal and unreal. And that sensation could certainly be transferred to the rest of her body. In the sense that she’d been walking around, talking to people and doing the little everyday things she normally did, but nothing felt quite real to her. She thought of herself as a sleepwalker, noticing that it wasn’t the first time - too much, too often, she’d likened herself to one: numb, half-asleep, callous and sightless.
All because of some damn temporal rapture. She shook her head slowly and placed a new cigarette between her lips. Before her, on the table, was a mug of already-cold coffee and a smoky ashtray full of cigarette stubs. She had put her feet up on the chair so that her bent knees were almost under her chin, and that way she felt safer, more protected, like the cocoon shape she formed when she slept.
Three nights and she still felt the same. When would it start to fade? Come on, it’s time already!
It was early morning: the only moment in which she allowed herself to take time and really think. With her family still asleep, not even those unhappy servants around, she rose, grabbed a pack of cigarettes and made herself a mug of strong coffee (which usually went cold before giving a sip) and isolated herself even more by going out to the terrace to sit at the cold metal table. Less than two hours later everyone would be up, and the spell she’d created would be instantly shattered. So she had little time to reflect on herself, on what had happened and what she could do about it.
Nothing, she would conclude. Zero. Every day, she would live her life as always: the dutiful daughter, friend and student. As always, her father would ask her about Phil, and it wasn’t out of politeness. He meant the state of the relationship, and so she couldn’t get away with a simple “Very well, Father”. No, what he wanted was an account, a description. Her father was waiting for a marriage proposal like a salvation rain for his arid crops, and there was no question. Yes, she could be studying, but that wasn’t important: just something else to do with her time. A Psychology degree was worthless. What her parents wanted was to gain position all over again. Respectability. That was all she heard: “It is your responsibility”, her father would say, enclosing her shoulder in his hand. And that was that.
So every thought of Yulia was stored deep inside her, stuffed against the corners of her mind like wrinkled sheets of paper, and she only looked at them during those early mornings. Only then did she dare to relive the thick, dream-like quality of what had happened. Only then she admitted that alcohol had nothing to do with it; that she’d been drunk on a person, not a liquid; that such a thing was actually possible. That she had never felt anything barely comparable to it; that she’d been drawn to Yulia like a magnet; that she couldn’t forget the texture of those lips; that she still felt them between hers; that she was still wearing the taste of Yulia’s body on her tongue; that nothing could erode it - not even considering its wrongness.
She also used that special time as a kind of penance, since thinking about how she’d treated Yulia that night made her feel rotten inside. Lena couldn’t get over how hurt the girl had looked, especially because of her silence as an answer. But what Yulia didn’t know -and would never know- was how those silences were like a punch in the gut for her too. And then, Yulia had grabbed her by the shoulder and forced her to make eye-contact: the last straw; the last question. “Is that what you really want?” Yulia had asked. But Lena was her mother’s daughter. Without a give-away, without blinking or flinching, she answered a big “Yes”. And that was that.
There was nothing either of them could do about it; no way to indulge such desire, no way to make it right either. Something had happened that shouldn’t have happened. Ever. Everything had been a huge mistake.
But the pain was there anyway, wasn’t it?
There was a squeaky sound behind her that made her turn around, although not abruptly, since her mind was still drifting. There, on the terrace’s entrance, was her youngest sister rubbing her eyes: a miniature copy of herself in some kitten-splattered pajamas and pink socks (which had produced the squeaky sound against the terrace’s tiled floor). Lena smiled faintly; she wasn’t the least annoyed by the interruption; better her sisters than some angry, underpaid servant. Besides, her thoughts never took her anywhere. And the kid was too cute for words.
Acknowledging that the penance-time was over, she crushed the cigarette on the crowded ashtray, stood up and carried her sister inside. She left her at the living room, watching the first cartoons of the day, and marched off to the shower, which was like a daily baptism to erase any and every musing about Yulia. The action seemed fruitless, like washing up in dirty water.
No hay comentarios:
Publicar un comentario