Sunday afternoon.

She knows it isn’t right, but it has come to a point in which she cannot help it anymore.

It all began when she was almost 14. A windy Sunday afternoon at home, alone and with the TV on so there could be a sense of company inside her flat. Typical landscape in Buenos Aires: some coffee, a Julio Cortázar book and the buzzing of the thousands of cars going at it outside her window.

But then a thought, an urge flooded her mind. She remembered a field, just a giant open space between two mounts, in Córdoba.  She remembered being there with her dad, when he still seemed to care. The fresh and gentle breeze ran through her hair, she laughed so hard her stomach ached and her jeans were all green from crawling in the grass.

She closed her eyes, snuggled up in her favorite armchair. She forgot about the cars honking, about her coffee getting cold, about the book slipping out of her hands. She smelled the grass; she heard the wind blowing and felt the dirt between her fingers.

When she opened her eyes she was miles away from home, laying in the same spot her and her dad had adventured so many years ago.

She remembers feeling powerful.

And now, almost 5 years later, she has been to every single place she can think of. She has taken endless strolls down Indian streets; she has had more than a thousand cups of coffee by the Seine in France. And though she had vowed to visit a new place every month, she seems to be stuck.

She feels her youth fading away, she feels like a long lost soul wandering the earth looking for something to hold on to. She just simply doesn’t know what it is.

And she feels ashamed, oh, how ashamed she feels of what she is doing. Her search for inspiration, her urge to write about new experiences had been working pretty well as an excuse for her trips. But she can’t keep lying to herself anymore.

She knows why she does it.

She knows why she always appears at the same time at the same bench of the same corner of Central Park every Sunday. And she knows she carries her notepad for no reason, because she doesn’t desire to write at all, not until she gets home.  And she knows every single word to every single song he plays, and she even knows in which order he does it.

And she knows it’s wrong.

But she can’t help looking at him and feeling her world crumbling down every single time. She stares at him silently, sometimes humming the songs ever so quietly, trying to blend in with the tourists and New Yorkers.  She loves his eyes, she loves the way he bites his bottom lip softly when he plays the guitar, she loves how fast but gently his fingers strike the chords.

She doesn’t know if he even notices her, if he sees that the exact same stranger shows up every week just to see him play; that she puts on tons of make up just in case he glances at her even for a second; that she paints her nails just so her hand looks appropriate when she throws a tip inside of his hat.

And he is like a never ending fountain of inspiration for her. She can write an entire novel just because he smiled at a little girl, or because he forgot the lyrics to a song and began to chuckle like a child two weekends ago.

She can’t get him out of his mind. She ponders what’s his name, what he does for fun, what’s his job, what’s his story.  But she cannot ask, she cannot dare to disturb him, to make him feel uncomfortable. She can’t bear to be rejected by such an extraordinary human being.

And today’s another Sunday, another chance to see him, to hear him. She gets ready and throws herself into her favorite armchair, which then is transformed into a crooked bench on the west side of Central Park.

But he isn’t there.

He is not playing, he is not singing.

She is alone.

She looks around and decides to wait for a bit. Maybe he is just running late.

1 minute.

5 minutes.

20 minutes.

She sighs and gets up, notepad in hand, and starts to walk alongside the tourists. The snow covers everything with her white mantle, making it all glimmer in the sunlight, as if it was made of silver.

Then someone bumps into her quite violently, and runs past her. She turns and glances furiously at the stranger, who does the exact same.

“Hey…you are that girl that drops by every Sunday” he mumbles, with a genuine smile.

“Yeah…” she answers, trying to make her English sound as good and convincing as possible “… thought you weren’t showing up today”.

He laughs and continues walking towards his usual spot.

“…you coming?”

She nods, feeling her body getting warmer and warmer despite the chilling breeze that caresses her cheeks.

She closes her eyes for a second, and when she opens them again, she is laying on her favorite armchair, in her flat, with the cars honking, her coffee ruined and her book smashed against the wooden floor.

“Hello honey” her mother greets her as she walks in “…beautiful Sunday isn’t it?”

And she smiles, remembering all the cups of coffee she pretended to drink by the Seine, all the strolls she had taken down Indian markets, all the songs she thought she heard.

“Yeah… “She feels her stomach bubbling, her mind boiling and her heart pounding against her tiny chest “… it is a beautiful Sunday”.

 Lunes 6 de febrero de 2017, 06:26 a.m