He knew that accepting his invitation was a mistake. Being romantically linked with a co-worker almost always is. We went to see "The Skin I Live In" by Almodóvar. It was the first time that I stepped foot in a "VIP" movie theater. I didn't understand the magnitude of the couch or the glass of wine at 4 PM, but he turned my discomfort into something funny. He was corduroy and thoughtful.
After that date, we started having lunch together at the office. We went out a couple more times and, I don't know when or how, we became boyfriends. The workday became more productive and fun. He is probably one of the best post producers I have ever met. And despite our differences, we were a good pair, a couple that liked each other. He had the creativity and I had the discipline to advance in that field of work.
At his side and with his support, I projected my voice, perfected my way of editing, I began to look at the soundtrack of the films, I learned to ride a bike, I lost my fear of motorcycles, I put my heart to the car rides synchronous, I camped in Ávila, I took a course for four, I tried sushi, we bought a little piece of land to plant, we started selling cakes and I began to understand the importance of not judging anyone: I had a valuable man by my side and smart, even if he had no academic degrees and had a hideous Rasputin tattoo.
I tried, to a greater or lesser extent, to return all his love and dedication. I fought to eliminate his spelling mistakes, I insisted that he study and grow professionally, I pushed him to buy a used truck, motivated him to get to know Venezuela and also to get out of it, we expanded horizons in the most brutal adventures. We were happy or at least I thought we were. So much so that I never stopped to think if all this was really what he wanted or if he was just doing it to please me.
At some point, I confess, I began to assume that it was his duty to do everything that I organized in my head, what I — in unison — had planned for both of them. "I think I made you so mine, that for a moment I forgot you," he would sing crying years later as he drove aimlessly through Guaireñas lands, perhaps hoping to run into him on some beach shore.
I always wanted more, demanded and demanded, although I was not always willing to give. Then, his security began to dissipate and he saw ghosts where there were none. Absurd claims were born, complaints that disguised their own insecurities: "You like talking with so and so more than with me because as he is studied, he will surely understand you more. I think he stopped admiring me and my way of being began to hurt him.
So those fights that weren't even fights are here to stay. Little by little, he started to look tired and so did I. I thought a thousand times about ending the relationship, I went out for a couple of nights without saying anything to him, I made up excuses for not seeing him, everything bothered me: "It's just that he always says good morning anyway," I even said to a corduroy. I couldn't assume that our feelings had changed, that the relationship — which I had cared so much about — was suddenly dying and I didn't know what to do with the corpse. Few things are as painful as watching the fire slowly extinguish and not being able to reignite it or put it out suddenly.
Even so, I was surprised and it hurt to die the day he asked me for "some time", "air", "space". I was screwed up by its ambiguity. I deserved to be properly sent to shit, but what nonsense was this "give me time and space" thing? Worse than "it's not you, it's me." I cried day and night, I had lost my partner and my best friend, I had a hard time assuming my routines without his presence, but I kept tripping over him at the office.
Yes, I was tired too, lying to him, running away, but I hadn't prepared myself for that outcome. Perhaps, egomaniacal as it may sound, the problem was that: the end was brought about by him and not by me. He tried to be my corduroy, but my brain couldn't process such a rapid change of lights ... and now he was missing!
A short time later, I found out that he was preparing his wedding, for the church and everything, with another, an other who was extremely pregnant. That destroyed me twice: he wanted a child and I always asked him to wait a little longer. I did not understand. I still don't get it. I absurdly dedicated myself to finding out who she was. "He doesn't look like me, he has nothing to do with me, I mean, the hell is in his profile picture with the Twilight book, damn it."
So I knew that I was still an expert in judgment. In my head it was inconceivable that she would leave me for someone totally different from me, which — of course — made her “worse”, “less”. I repeated to myself for many months that guys like simple, gross shit, "with her he is not going to feel inferior", blah blah blah. Until the pain was gone and I realized my ridiculous actions. Obviously he wanted something other than me and that was fine.
We ended in 2015. We have never spoken again.
Last year I visited a place that I got to know thanks to him and which I got hold of until the sun today: Todosana, on the coast. As I walked around the place, I remembered —without any nostalgia or longing— everything that that panama taught me, what he did for me, the way we loved and supported each other, and suddenly, I regretted that he had not had the courage to promote a more frontal end nor I the maturity to end that relationship much sooner. Past and healed.
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