Saturday, December 14, 2013

Love Story



Sixth sense, premonitions, and lightning strikes are all junk. When you meet the person of your life, it makes no difference who is in a room, at work or on the internet and that the only thing you like and want to know is know him better, and there's nothing in the world that will help you predict what role he will play in your life.


He was beautiful, pale, celestial, with that double row of white teeth and black hair that framed the perfect features. When I saw him the first time, walking up the road silhouetted against the summer sunset that set fire to his broad shoulders, I already envy him to death.

For three years I watched him in the corner seat of the restaurant where I ate almost every night. I loved his concentrated expression. I looked at him only, without moving forward, unshakably convinced that the affair may then soon be over.

When I caught him looking at me almost for more than a hour for a few nights while taking our food, the relief had removed the long wait, stored as an inevitable queue at the post office. One night he stepped forward to confess what I thought to myself from the first day. To me it was just a formality and I was not surprised. Fate is fate, and mine had decided it was the right time to rejoin the other half of the apple.

Like a soap opera burst of passion was overwhelming. Handed out in one breath words that every woman wants to hear, before learning that a man compliments cost nothing. But sometimes it makes them pay dear. When he asked me after a year of living together, it was natural that he was at my house.

Barely two months of cohabitation and the first privilege that was missing were the compliments. Then he stopped looking at me in the eyes, as if now it would give me for granted. The fear of asking "Is there something wrong?" With the risk of hearing, that, yes, something is not right anymore. Or, worse, that everything is okay but women always break.

The disappearance of respect, a piece at a time: the paper of a candy that stays where it is placed, the laundry left in deep drawer when it is his turn to do the laundry, dirty dishes in the sink, although he dined only, the bills for which he does not think of having to contribute because "this is your house, if it were mine I would pay it". If love was too big, you can not do anything but take all the blame, you think you're doing something wrong, that you do feel bad, and that if you do not take action now, you will leave.

When he lost his job, I wondered why it worried me more than him. Then I admired, because I am a servant who can not live without the yoke while he is a free spirit. Instead, he started to make me weigh the good fortune to have a job while he, his, she had lost: "We are a couple, for better or for worse, you are now favoured by fortune and you have to help me." Help him not as a lover, but as a daughter. After the bills, food, clothes, cigarettes. He calls it a hundred times a day while they are at work, and I think, "I called, still cares," without realizing that it does so only because he uses my home phone.

Then comes the alcohol. Work is not an excuse to drink three beers in the evening, which increase day by day, up to fifteen.
The night becomes a nightmare without end, a continuous prayer that you fall asleep, with him moving from the fridge to the chair to uncork yet another beer while I try to sleep because I still have a job to defend and often there with only a couple of hours of sleep behind. One night I wake up and find that he disassembled the TV with a screwdriver, because it was having a strange noise, he said and now its irreparably damaged.

He was upset and wanted me to stay quiet. "You just want to stay quiet and not think about my problems. You're mean. " So it's true, it's all my fault. He was not so, I was the one to change it for the worse. I have to be near him, resist sleep, drink lots of coffee.

One day I can not resist and collapsed into bed. I wake up with a start, with a weight on the belly and expect pupils to adjust to the light of the street lamps filtering through the window. He is on top of me, straddling, has the sweet breath and holds a knife in his hand. "Tonight, you die," he says smiling. I know he's joking, but I'm afraid that I disassemble the same in good faith, like the TV, and which are no longer able to try and fit.

I smile and change of topic. I look at the knife as if he did not know why he took, and it goes away. But that night to keep a weapon in his hand it must have made him discover something about ourselves.

The first slap came after a week. I wanted you to meet my parents, but I was no longer so sure. He wanted me to go on the day of my birthday, and was ready to party with my friends.

"I do not want to know see your mother, you're bad," he accused. And without any warning, I feel my right cheek explode against his hand. I look at him in disbelief; he raised his arm to give me the second blow, the harder this time. I shudder to think how I will pay for the return.

Predicting what triggered the slap becomes impossible.  Talking is difficult, because I'm afraid of saying the wrong thing, while silence can make him angry. I'm lonely and I'm ashamed to tell it to the others, who envy me so much, I want to preclude normalize everything. The best moment of the day is the morning when the he does not wake up and even when it's snowing I run to work.

The worst is the return, when I know that I will find the house dirty, him in a bad mood because no one offers him the job, but rages even more, instead to be with him, I try to tidy up a bit. Now it's always there, never goes out except when I'm not there, because he is afraid to change the lock.

One evening while he beats me, I say finally that I never thought of saying, "I do not want it anymore, get away." It touches the lowest point of my life when I respond by a slap in return. I leave.

He calls me to tell "do not go back," and that he is sorry.

"No one will ever love you more as I did," he sweared.

Four years have passed. I do not know where it got him, if he is alive. Sometimes I find his picture in a drawer, a few letters that he sent me to come back in his life. I don’t know whether I should throw it all away, for my heart goes out for him all the time.



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