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The worst part was that she was wet—her eyeliner smeared, her hair damp—and just in her underwear. All I could think about was how beautiful she was. That time had treated her well. And I’d needed to hurt her, because she’d done well and I hadn’t, and that was—of course—because she was the one who abandoned me; the one who had it bad was me, not Priscila. So I told her the first stupid thing that crossed my mind, and I took off. I left, because I hadn’t breathed for minutes and if I kept going like that, I was going to die. And I didn’t want to die. I wanted to continue living my pathetic life because... it was my life.
Just as I was crossing the forest, Marcos called me to tell me Priscila was in town; I didn’t tell him I already knew. He said they were meeting for lunch, but then he and I could meet at the pub and talk. I told him I didn’t want to talk, a refusal he took by saying that it was okay, that we didn’t need to, we could just hang out for a while. And I know he did it because he knew I needed him, his presence.
What I didn’t expect was to find Priscila in the pub too, Marcos neither I guess. And I couldn’t help but approach her, like a magnet, after “I Will Survive” played through the loudspeakers. I was about to kill Pedro for that, by the way. The song brought back too many memories.
I told her Dark was with another family and that I wanted the divorce and hell, that felt good. Of course it did. Although I saw in her eyes she was confused, like she didn’t get where my hatred was coming from. How is it possible that she didn’t get it? Was she that foolish?
The next day, I went for a run on the beach and came across her again. Fucking destiny. Was the town so small now? Was I going to bump into her everywhere? Was she going to invade all my spaces with her presence? I didn’t want her in my life, or in my places, but I couldn’t kick her off the beach or out of Pedro’s pub, no matter how much I fancied doing it.
When I met her on the hill that day, drunk on her bike, I was furious. Because I was thinking about her constantly and hopelessly and she was getting drunk with her idiot friend—not her boyfriend, I know that now—and having a blast. Because she didn’t give a shit about me, even though her eyes told me otherwise. Because her eyes talked to me. Or, well, they wanted to, but I wouldn’t let them. So I tricked her, told her there was no one at her house, that everyone was busy somewhere. I wanted a reaction, something, and boy did she give me one.
Then she came to my house looking for a fight, and I stayed there on the couch, enjoying the moment. Enjoying driving her crazy.
I vowed to hate her forever, and so I’d been doing for the past four years. So I’d do for the rest of my life.
Shit, I’m so fucked.
