I'm not there.
The final stop was a concert he wanted to attend to, close to one of the final chapters of his childish romance. The story which had been mostly in his head, crushed under reality's harsh blows, that left his longings open in ways he couldn't have predicted. He wanted to listen to the songs and the band that have once, for a brief period of time, brought them together. He wanted to change that story. He would still love the songs, and it would be without her. From now on, each time when hearing the songs, he would be enjoying them by himself. This would be his new memory. This would be his new feeling.
No question she will be there as well. Yet the alleged encounter was a mistery. Would he be able to maintain a straight composure? Would he be able to sustain his thoughts, were she to come to him and say hello? What would follow that hello? What does normally follow an honest regret of ever having met someone and a haughty superposition over his whole being? There would probably be not even a spit laid out on him, her last speeches would have predicted. Yet the tension he felt was immense.
Aside this big cloud, he had his own plan of enjoying the concert. Fully relaxed and by himself he would go there, fix himself up with a beer and stand still in a front spot, a couple of feet from the stage. A good view, which he could afford since he got there 30 minutes earlier. Some people already gathered around. Not her though. He knows she's normally a bit late.
So he picks up his reader and skims his current book, focusing on a straight posture, loosening up punctual tensions in his muscles - in the back of the neck, along his back, under his ass. You know, the annoying little itches brought along by standing still. And the thoughts, the constant memories, rushing through his mind. The sister act. The black shirt. And the faces passing by, making room in the crowd.
The band takes the stage.
As he starts clapping he puts on a fixed, psychopatic stare towards the drummer. Relaxed while he's taking paced sips from his beer bottle. Calm gestures of spreading around. First the greet, then the songs. First the light ones, then the soul wrenching ones. He feels it, it's almost like he's singing, but he's aware he's in an exposed cage. Right in the arena, somewhere close to her. But not yet, please, a bit more, 50 minutes in, THEN he would eye search her. Just as expected, he still loves the songs. And he's quite comfortable keeping an imaginary picture where she used to be. It's still enough for him.
Then he sees her. He keeps his eyes locked in her direction. No mistake, after 4 seconds she turs her head. She bears a long distance stare, penetrating everything. Then she returns her face back to the stage. Not even shrugging it off. As if he were invisible. So while he's starting to feel washed by the awaited cold sweat shower, his neck swallowing a huge breath, he sees her head quickly dispearring, swallowed by a dark, ripped forearm. Turned away from him and locked in a closed eyes mouth kiss. It's been five months since their last concert together. He can see the back of her jaws dropping from opening a welcoming mouth, body stiff as if all life is emerging out, and her soft hand gently upping under his left ear. Flashes of an intimate moment captured in the intermittent stage lights, right during the apex chorus of her favorite song, and his as well. There he stands, struck by the beauty of the discreetly moving hands and caresses of his one and only. Nobody has any idea. He can't breathe anymore.
He remembers he'd written a message, some time after, a draft he never sent. Too savage. He looks it up in his phone.
'I don't want it to have never happened. I don't claim salvation, nor am I going to bitch my ass over the pain. But I do want it done and I want it now. And what I specifically want is to see you with another man. I don't care much if it's a sugary picture taken out of a lovey dovey romance sitcom or if he's pushing you against a filthy wall with his tongue down your throat and viceversa. Honestly? The more brutal, the more efficient. I don't care if I stumble upon you two fucking in the bushes, you screaming how big of a hunk he is and how hard he can make you moan, as opposed to me. I don't even care if you go on with your grand poise of maturity, worthiness and superiority in this high stance of spitting upon mere mortals.
I don't care about time wasted. I am glad it happened. This is what I get from acting on the what-if. And boy, did I go from the lush idealizations of new born love, to the clayoring disgrace of my inner value system and mental equilibrium. One simple gesture to sublimate it all in a second. Then gone. I ain't even complaining. I want it done. Your image in my soul burned to the ground. Not because of the pain. Not because of the dissolution. But because I have this itch that if I were to stumble upon you in the future, as a different person, I might still fucking feel something.
I want to feel that now. And have it done for good.'
He got what he asked for. He leaves the place and the crowd. There's air and he's alone. No resolution, no epiphany. Nothing else beyond.
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