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The white ceiling of the room is no more interesting today than it was yesterday or the day before, however, I keep looking at it, even after almost an hour lying in my bed.My brain is too active to be able to sleep and instead decided to rub in my face all the situations that don’t make sense in the world I’m struggling to live in.The one where Marcos is nothing but an asshole.
On the podium, occupying the first place, we have Marcos, dirty with icing sugar, with the sleeves of his shirt folded up to his elbows and one of his hands sunk inside an immense pot of edible slime.
In the second position, but no less surprisingly, there is the very same Marcos ashamed before my look of reproach.
Finally, just because I refuse to give this event the credit I know it deserves, there is not only my whole body kindling before his scrutiny just now, but also my heart.Stupid organ!
There has always been attraction.The change in temperature, the electric current that ran through me with each touch of his, or the sudden shortness of breath caused by his proximity never allowed me to ignore that magnetism has always been there.But this time, it was different, because it went beyond, far beyond the attraction.
His gaze stripped me not only of clothes but of armor, freeing me now from much more than wishes and fantasies.Releasing memories of his touch on my skin, of his mouth on mine, on my body, of my consciousness being shattered into a million pieces as I shouted his name and that of no one else.
If before his non-asshole way of acting confused me, now it starts to frustrate me with myself.I’ve known loneliness for a long time.In fact, I don’t remember a time in my life when I didn’t know it.And Marcos, precisely Asshole Marcos, decides to rehearse showing me something different?
I don’t want anything different.
I want what’s safe.
I want the comfortable.
I want what works.
Fuck. Fucking hell. No matter how much I want to run away, Marcos keeps doing all the right things, and thus making it harder and harder to maintain the narrative that he Asshole Marcos, from whom it is easy to keep me away.
And if that wasn’t material enough to drive a woman crazy, I still have to deal with the unbridled growth of the pile of moments that, no matter how much I desire, I’m not willing to live.Or, again, with the fact that thenothat should come so easily out of my mouth begins to have its vowels and consonants transformed into others, forming a completely different word in form and meaning.
Marcos is an asshole, Antonella...He went out to have sex with someone else when you said no, remember?
But he had that right, didn’t he?I could have done the same if I wanted to.
Marcos is an asshole, Antonella...He said you’d be nothing but an ornament, remember?
But then he apologized for it and recognized how scumbag he sounded...
Marcos is an asshole, Antonella...A philanderer, a womanizer, remember?
And yet, every time he’s been by my side, his eyes haven’t turned away from me for a second...
Marcos is an asshole, Antonella...He said this relationship would be strictly professional, remember?
But before I even signed the contract, he gave me greater support than anyone else around me did, he didn’t need to have been in that hospital, and yet...
Marcos is an asshole, Antonella...He was arrogant enough not to realize he was making completely wrong assumptions about you, remember?
But when the truth came out, after a fit of rage, he was able to acknowledge it and, in his own way, even apologize...
Marcos is an asshole, Antonella...He made it clear that he didn’t want to develop any kind of relationship with Isabella, remember?
But still, today, I found him eating slime...
Fuck!I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and cover them with my palms.It was supposed to be simple.Two years of contract.Enough money to organize my life and end.
So why am I here, sleepless, making a mental list of Marcos’ dumb attitudes that are always followed by a but?I don’t care about the buts!I’m not interested in them!But there are so many...
I wasn’t yesterday when I dismissed Marcos with a simple “It was just sex…”, I’m not today, even if my whole body burns with the incontestable urge to knock on his door, that my mind refuses to sleep and insists on a cursed two-word question: “what if?”
I exhale hard, expelling the air from my lungs in a vain attempt to organize my thoughts and calm my own skin, excited by the memories and the possibility, even if small, that they will repeat themselves.But it’s no use.I’m still as alive, in body and mind, as before.
?
