10.02.2009

_the kidnapping



.
She stops the car and says:
“come in”.
He does what she says as if it was normal that she’d show up like this, no call, nothing. He kisses her face, turns the cd player on, asks if she wants a mint.
She says no, with a smile.

He: Where are we going?
She: Don’t know…Think I want to drive.
He: Why didn’t you tell me you'd come over?
She: What for? For you not to be here?
He: No. I could be here earlier so we could hang out for longer.
She: We have plenty of time.
He: Not that much. I have a birthday party I have to go to.

She turns the music up, in a clear sign that she doesn’t want to talk and lights up a smoke.
He: Don’t smoke…
She: Sorry, I need it.

And they're gone – one, naive. The other, desperate.
She knows that what she is doing is beyond wrong, but she doesn’t care, not this time around. She is positive about solving this story that had been stuck down her throat for longer than it should by now.

While the music plays loudly, and he's browsing through the 55 CD’s in the glove compartment, she sees him by her side… distracted boy… He doesn’t notice her thoughts, doesn’t see what she feels, doesn’t understand what she can possibly feel for a guy like him. Truth is, she is the one who can’t really understand. Too many differences! Her life experience and his innocence. Her knowledge and the simplicity of his thoughts. Her heart – all full of stories – and his – a blank page willing to be filled. But it’s like he’s already part of her, since forever. He says that he really wants it sometimes…she gets sad because he doesn’t truly want it. She tries to make him jealous…he says he’s not jealous of her. She feels like asking him: “Hey! Say that you adore me! Say that you hate me! Please feel something!”

He loves her presence but doesn’t make a move…She says she knows a story by it's first line, but not this time. This time she only has the impression that both of them are missing something way too good and beautiful, but she has no control of it. Or didn’t have any …until now.

They get to a small house far away from the city, near a lake, and as they arrive they step out the car.
“Who lives here?”
“We do.”
He smiles and climbs the steps that lead to the house’s door, turns around staring at the lake, takes a deep breath, looking happy.
“This is beautiful!”
She opens the door, throws the purse on the couch, and turns on the music: “And so It is…just like you said it would be…”

She walks to the kitchen, asks him if he wants some wine. Of course he does.
“This house reminds me of Bridges of Madison County. Have you seen it?”
No…of course not. He’s just a boy.

The day passes by in peace. Easy talks becoming easier minute by minute because of the wine, delicious laughs, and the almost magical sight of that boy sometimes... that man other times, the weak light of the sunset in the lake, the sparks of admiration in the eyes…contemplation…

“Do you want something to eat?”
“No, I need to go.”
“Call them and say that you’re not going. Say that your friend’s car has broken, you’re waiting for help with him, there’s not a way you’re going home now…you already missed the party, so you’re going to go out with your friend, sleep over his house, you’ll be back home the day after tomorrow.”

He laughs and grabs his jacket.
And what comes next is complicated.

Without the slightest smile, she shows him she is telling the truth: he could not go home. The car keys were hidden since the moment they entered the house, and a horrible argument comes along.
Nervous, he asks for the car keys, but she refuses to give it to him. He then speaks out loud, opens her purse searching for the keys, she's angry, he's aggressive trying to not lose his temper, she loses her cool and starts to cry, tells him she can't take the rejection coming from him anymore, that she can't understand it; he punches the door and demands for the key, she tells him to leave on foot, he gets the cell phone and tells her that he's calling a cab, she gets the car keys under a pillow and throws it at him, he says he's leaving without her, she gets up and throws herself against him to get the key, but he reacts quickly and firmly holds her arms until she stops...
A movie scene: they stare at each others' eyes, she cries, he looks mad, she leans her head against his chest, he holds her in his arms bringing her face up until their lips meet...
There! Finally!
And they kiss until she stops crying, he wipes her tears, she apologizes, tells him that she will never imprison him like that again..he is free to go. He tells her that he doesn't want to leave anymore, and they kiss again...
It's already dark, a heavenly silence takes over: not a bird outside, the music is over, only the sound of their mouths and their kisses... Only the sound of her tears drying, only the sound of clothes being thrown all over the floor, only the sound of their breathing...
The sound of his heart being filled... the sound of her heart writing him a beautiful story.
Two days and a half.
Two days and a half in a house by the lake. Lunches and dinners made by four hands, breakfasts in bed... Movie watching under the blankets, lots of wine and laughter, many kisses, plenty of love making, falling asleep while kissing, waking up in each others' arms.
Time passes and no one notices. The clock - their only witness - is not capable of revealing the time.
No one remembers about car keys. No one remembers the arguments that would stop all of this from happening. No one understands what made them avoid this for so long.

On their way back to the city, there they go: they are now a girl and a man. Their eyes are wet, their hands stuck together, silence.

He turns the radio on: “And so it is... just like you said it would be...life goes easy on me... most of the time”

And so it is.
.
.


6 comments:

Alice Salles said...

They should never be away from each other...

Felipe "Tito" Belão said...

Eles escreviam com muito mais sentimento nesse tempo.

Mercedes Gameiro said...

Felipe,

Yes, they used to write with a lot more feeling. I think passion is the key for that. We grew old...(kind of)because there is maturity and there is "growing old".
Maturity doesn't kill passion. Growing old does, because it happens in the heart.

I miss being so stupidly passionate I could write about anything, any dream, any delusion. Now, seems like there's a body guard at my brain's door who keeps my heart from getting in, like that would be some kind a sin. I need to negotiate with him every time, and I hate him so badly!

Thus...I miss being a sinner. I'm so throwing away that damn halo and going back to my nature. I'm crazy, I'm passionate, I'm silly, I'm a daydream factory.
Good that you reminded me of all that.

Love you dearly...not even need to tell you.

Me

Felipe "Tito" Belão said...

eu sei do lance todo de escrever em inglês aqui e blablabla, mas a verdade é que acredito que minha expressão é latina.

Enfim, acridito que não é problema só de maturidade ou idade ou talvez seja.

O fato é que hoje, acredito que ele sabe mais das coisas que é capaz. Sabe até onde vai sua vontade e não mede esforços pelo desejo ainda que comedido.

Lá, vejo como um personagem que tinha muito medo do que poderia acontecer. Alguém que só tinha certeza quando errava. Cativar, apaixonar eram sentimentos relacionados à dúvida e insegurança.

Ele lia tudo de uma janela para o mundo e o mundo acabava sendo um refúgio silêncioso em que ele testava o tormento de não saber nem mesmo por um segundo o que vivia.

Ele escrevia mais. Vivia mais, portanto, mesmo sem saber. Olhos vendados pelo medo do que ele achava quer poderia ser a definição das coisas.

Hoje ele deve saber que não há definitivo. Ainda assim, os textos impressos no porta-luvas do carro do amigo dele o assustam. O medo é decorrente da certeza que se entregar é o melhor remédio.

Mas quando ele será capaz? Personagens são imprevisíveis.

Mercedes Gameiro said...

Felipe,

Você não precisa escrever em Ingles.

"Ainda assim, os textos impressos no porta-luvas do carro do amigo dele o assustam." Hahah! Ai se esse porta-luvas se abre! aff.

Ele escrevia mais, mas trabalhava beeem menos. Eu acho que o que a gente é de verdade está guardado, e vai e volta...mas volta. A gente só guarda no porta-luvas...mas tem sempre o dia que tudo se revela.

Beijoca

Wendy said...

I loved it!!! So passionate, and endearing. Makes my heart yearn.