***
P.O.V.
[SHE]
Perhaps you may think that since my hair was not blue—naturally—from birth. And that with the much—little—that I have told you about myself, I could be considered an expert in the art of dyeing unruly hair that seeks comfort and acceptance with its own owner.
Do you want to know the truth? Or well, one of many lies that I will tell you later.
I was terrible at painting —whatever it was—Since I was little, a simple circle was a torment to keep me within the line and not color outside of them. My mother was patient—when you could call it that. A mother-
I'm not ashamed to tell you because at the end of the day it's not very relevant in this story. But if it is something that I had to announce to you so that you more or less have an idea of how dyeing my hair used to be torture.
That's when words are repeated in my mind that I might ever hear but I no longer remember from whom.
To be beautiful, you have to see stars
In my case, I did not strive to be beautiful. I didn't want to be. Someone like me—at that time—couldn't just erase a stain with her unusual beauty.
I never considered myself the tallest, nor the most voluptuous. I didn't have a small waist, much less pleasing. It was just me with my body proportions like any other human being.
I strayed right?
I didn't know how to paint so in conclusion, don't expect a bluish color like the magazines you find when you go to the hairdresser's.
An advice
Always expect the worst. Think wrong and be right.
With everything and my bad handling for art, it was done the best that my hands could while holding a brush.
Standing in front of the sink mirror, I stopped to look at my pale face.
Okay, going back to the beauty thing, I want to clarify that it wasn't that it was a monster with pimples, a long nose, green skin...
Oh no wait that's a witch ha ha.
She was one of them, yes, it was already a fact that she had accepted—a long time ago—but she didn't have the look of one.
So don't be scared by my appearance, be scared by my actions.
Returning my vision to the crystal. The person who was looking back at me looked tired, faint dark circles wanted to make an appearance under my honey eyes. Perhaps because I never knew how to take advantage of the dream or the arms of Morpheus they considered me impure to embrace me.
Hugs, sigh. It had been quite a while since anyone hugged me and that may have been my cruel punishment.
Look at my hair with traces of colors wanting to peek out over the blue cape. They wanted to come out. As well as all the dragons from my past.
But I wouldn't allow it. If there was one thing I knew —by then— it was that no matter how much I carried that weight on my shoulders, I shouldn't let the monsters get away.
It was a lot of effort, to lock them up so that they would start their damage again.
I pulled my right cheek down, expanding my skin. I turned on my heel to watch my hair fall freely to the small of my back.
Too much hair, I thought.
For that time, having it that long represented a danger to my physical and mental health. Without neglecting the emotional, obviously.
The silence that invaded that instance was comforting. It was as if the whole world stopped running its course and stopped right there.
I will tell you that by the time this narration occurred, I could enjoy a house that was spacious and large enough to obtain the necessary privacy.
But, that did not take away from the suffocating of the walls, the darkness of the lights and the inert cold that spread throughout the structure.
There was only one place in all of my home where none of it was overwhelming.
A space that —despite being foreign— I considered mine.
And no, it wasn't in the basement or attic if that's what you're thinking.
Let me explain, since I was a child my father used the basement to terrorize two little naughty girls. It was the "forbidden place" according to the panoramic vision of a girl. Soon after the accident that small room was used as a method of punishment and torture.
Surely, you have seen that famous movie in which the director of the institution locked her undisciplined students or those who simply did not like them in a room where the door had thorns or spikes.
Well, I hope you know what it is.
Now remove the spikes and thorns, add absolute darkness, lashes and no possibility of eating any food.
Is that enough punishment or not?
Worse than the movie in my opinion.
Instead, the attic was dusty, with lighting but the artifacts stored there made it a tight space.
My reflection took me by surprise as my eyes met my face again.
I shook my head
Focus, focus, I repeated to myself as I took the brush in my hand and held the first lock of hair.
Don't scoff - that would be cruel - but I spent around two and a half hours to complete my bluish artwork.
And I will tell you that it turned out better than I expected. Although, as always, not all that glitters is gold, because not all my hair was painted correctly.
mind slap
But there was no going back now—there never was—so with a shrug, I waited for my other forty-five minutes to take a good shower.
I don't need to explain my grooming process to you, right?
I do not think so.
What I am going to explain to you next I read once in a book —if you are reading it as you are, I may have read it— that after a shower you can enter into a mental conflict between the magnetic reality that the problems represent in life, if these monsters exist as we make believe or if it is only the anxiety that overwhelms us.
Imagine that those two hunters—anxiety and problems—were an individualistic entity that had water as its only weakness.
Due to the moment in which they come into contact with that liquid, they will go out for a while, weakened, vulnerable and without the strength to attack us.
I blinked several times again looking at my reflection. May the water have that magical ability to clean, purify and hide my dragons. The bad thing is its duration. It was always short-or at least in my case-before glimpsing the stain again.
[...]
—How long do you plan to last with this ridiculous mania of yours of looking like a clown on the street with that blue hair? I stopped my steps, motionless when I heard that woman's voice spread through the walls.
The Spanish accent slipped through my ears, digging into my reasoning system. She was addressing me and there was no one else present to feign her attention.
She noticed me.
Maybe the blue hair thing at the end of it all if it drew attention.
I knew he was watching me, but I didn't have the courage to turn my head to see it with my own eyes. He knew the high degree that woman possessed and just looking back at her was even more stormy than any reproach.
— How many times must I tell you, woman, that we should not care what he does or does not do with his life? I came out of my trance when my father's fingers grabbed my arm fiercely, forced to walk where he wanted. My mother, on the other hand, maintained her firm posture sitting on the sofa holding a steaming cup of coffee in her hands.
I kept quiet. If I decided to say any word—even the slightest sound—I could do worse. And he still considered this small talk—or discussion—minimal.
—It can harm your political career Javier. If he goes through the streets with that appearance, he can give a bad feeling about the upbringing that we maintain in..." my mother meditated her words well. She would not say what she classified me as more than a fetus born from her womb and by law she gave me rights over her economic possessions. Instead she turned to the old trusty.
Divert prayer —as he always did after the accident—
"Javier, you know more than anyone what the language of critics is like." My father shook me for a few seconds before staring at me.
"Go away," he spat rudely, "This conversation is none of your business." —and without further ado he pushed me straight to the door and then closed it behind me.
no right to return
No right of reply
No right to be his daughter.
I released all the air that had accumulated in my lungs, freeing me from my nerves.
This time I was lucky—I couldn't be sure for the next time—to get out unscathed.
Walk in the direction of the bus stop —two blocks ahead— crossing the paved avenues, adorned with yellowish lanterns, accompanied by the cold wind.
Clouds took up much of the blue sky, leaving room for only the gray to do battle with the blue.
Who will win the storm or the calm?
My feet moved aimlessly—I wasn't going to the bus stop—the urge to feel company invaded me, squeezing my chest deeply.
Loneliness didn't bother me—it doesn't bother me—it's just that when a human being enters the stage of vulnerability it becomes easier to look for someone to comfort him than to remain sunk in the misery of his life.
I had no one to look for, no one to talk to. She was a stranger to that citadel and perhaps for that reason. By letting myself be influenced by my mother's irregular attention, that masterful save, the clouds, the wind, my vulnerability ended up ending up again where I once felt accompanied.
I approached the small square, surrounded by immense green paths that were lost in the vision of the man. I observed that capsule or bobeda of fine wood, in the shape of an arch, whitish but with small wear on the wood. The lights were already on, illuminating the space in the spiral path they kept on the pillars.
The breeze of a riotous afternoon greeted me from the start, inviting me to close my eyes while being guided by the sweet and delicate melody of Symphony by Clean Bandit ft Zara Larson that passed through my ears, seeping into my interior like soothing medicine.
Do you remember what I asked you?
Storm vs. Calm?
Well, I will tell you that over the years I understood that the storm was always going to remain in my life. She had been a part of me since I was eight years old and avoiding her only made my situation worse. So I learned to live with her until she herself decided to give me my quiet time.
I would not seek to catch the calm because —at least I had a storm that was too considerate— to let the calm accompany me for a few minutes.
I smiled.
The storm was tortuous if you saw it that way yourself. I saw her as that invisible companion who was looking for a space in my life to exist. Just like every human being seeks an ecosystem to live.
The storm is rude—I'm not going to deny it—but it's your duty. You can't hear it, you don't see when it's coming, let alone feel it only when it catches you.
The more the storm increases, the more damage it generates in our being.
It's like someone who needs you—obviously even though they don't know each other—If we think selfishly —and with logic—after all, the storm doesn't care at all who you are or who we think we are. He only takes advantage of that human weakness to give himself life. Just as a baby takes advantage of the comfort of a mother's womb to grow inside her, regardless of the collateral damage it causes.
We are just to her a vulnerable mind, a decadent existence or a little sadness inside to give her a home.
It doesn't mean it's good—or bad—but it teaches you to get stronger.
And even though I—by then—was falling apart. The storm of my life always gave way to calm.
Whatever his way of getting it to me.
I snapped out of my mesmerizing trance the moment her voice kept me company.
—So if you used the dye, not bluish? I laughed openly watching Sarahy cross her arms as she leaned against one of the pillars.
—-That? Admit that I look good —I gave a half turn— It cost me, huh? The dark smiled slightly, shaking her head.
Like I was hopeless—which I never was—
It's blue, isn't it? I agreed, repressing a few giggles. "Then that's what counts." Are you coming or do you want to go to the cafeteria? Because I'm sorry to interrupt you, Ms. Blue Singer, but you're going to be late if you don't move your butt—I curved my mouth downwards.
—If you mentioned "butt" because you don't distinguish between where my back ends and my buttocks begin, you didn't need to remind me, Ms. Voluptuous—Sarahy laughed.
with which the dark girl had teeth
interesting, very interesting
—Turn up bluish before I regret it —and legs so I want them. I squeezed my butt in an attempt to try to make it look like I have skinny bottom—but still small.
I opened the passenger door of the black Optra that Sarahy owned.
I wanted to enter into a topic of conversation but the dark woman turned on the radio and ignored my presence for the rest of the -short- but long walk to the cafeteria.
The kindness attack lasted only micro seconds
I rolled my eyes and since she ignored me, I had no choice but to support my face and observe through the window and everything that happened to us or happened to us.
In the distance my vision wanted to play against —surely because of my thoughts that deep down wanted to see him— colliding with his calm silhouette, as he walked along the sidewalk holding a guitar case over his shoulder.
I looked sideways at Sarahy who was humming distracted with her vision on the road that didn't pay attention to what I was seeing.
Have I never told you that the best ideas came to me after the storm?
Something more to thank her, don't you think?
I snuggled in excited for the plan in mind. I rubbed my hands together and began to style my hair into a high—classic—ponytail.
The car stopped —as I wasn't aware of the rest of the world— I had to hold on to the rearview mirror so as not to end up with my face glued to the windshield
Sarahy laughed lightly
"For the next time, put your eyes where you should" she mentioned turning off the car, I turned my head to look at her, suppressing small giggles.
Today I had a Ms. Giggling complex and such
I rolled my eyes again
- What is that? An advice? Wait, wait -I frowned at her- Are you, the dark girl, giving advice to me, the aesthetic and kawaii girl? I sighed in astonishment. Sarahy looked at me seriously and approached me to pull a rebellious lock that was coming out without permission from my good —disheveled— forehead crushed by my hair tail.
— Do you want a bluish advice? I nodded, mesmerized by the piercings that protruded from her nose and lower lip.
—-The next time you want to dye those tresses, ask for help because with that mess you have, it shows that your hair has gone through several different dyes. And if what you want is to go unnoticed and, I don't know—she shrugged her shoulders, smiling without raising her lips—-Let no one recognize you, call me and that—she pulled the lock again but without being abrupt —It won't happen anymore, and your identity it will stay hidden” and he walked away.
I could have listened to my nerves, I could have been scared because his words were indeed true.
But for the first time—in a long time—I ignored them. Avoid those voices that said that I would fail again and concentrate on your offer. Which to tell the truth went unnoticed.
I wet my dry lips and spoke with a small voice — Are you saying that I can come to you if I need help? I asked, watching her get out of the car. He placed his arm above the ceiling and stuck his head inside to look at me.
—I'm telling you that I'll be the one who dyes those brooms that you have for blue hair. Now move, Don Ernesto and Doña Camila are waiting for us—she closed the door and I remained rigid on the back of the seat.
I had to react due to the insistence of the dark woman who was hitting the hood of the car with her knuckles.
I shook my head, blinking several times to wake up my five senses. That to be honest they were almost never complete hehe.
I hurried my walk behind Sarahy. I looked to both sides in search of the guitarist and I was relieved not to feel him close. I mentally thanked the dark for the push, because even if he was close it's not like four wheels on two legs.
We entered the premises and I instantly put my plan into motion.
Don't worry, it's not a macabre plan, well yes, but only for him knowing his culinary tastes.
"Dark," I called her hastily. She raised an incredulous eyebrow, touching up her makeup in the dressing room mirror —
- What do you want bluish? I smiled placing the apron over my body.
—I need an ice cream with three Lemon balls and an ice cream with four balls. I announced to him. She raised her eyebrows in surprise at my request.
And I had not even attended to anyone and already making express orders
— What kind of person eats so much ice cream? I looked down between laughs. The kind of person I am, don't you think?
"Tell Doña Camila, she's in charge of serving the ice cream." She passed by me, brushing her shoulder with mine and went to do what I hadn't done yet.
Work.
I ran to peek at the counter when I heard the door jingle open.
Had arrived.
And I stand like a fool doing nothing.
I backed up and ran straight into the kitchen. I opened my mouth to ask for what I urgently needed but closed it with a slam when I realized that there was no soul present.
I shrugged my shoulders and took the spoon, the containers -white- and to serve ice cream has been said.
I ran back to see the outside. Sarahy was distracted so he was just mine.
Thank you Yisus
But divine grace could not last me long since I could not find a tray
Where grapefruits were the trays?
Current state: despair
breathe. I had to calm down.
Take it easy
Take it easy
CALM DOWN BITCH
And that I did. I calmed down, finding a tray. I tripped over the shelves but took her with me, placing the two containers on top of her trying to keep her balance.
I left
Hallelujah
I don't know if my prayers were heard but with everything and that I kept doing them.
Only after being halfway there did I realize that I wasn't wearing the local hat, so if I detailed my tresses he would realize the huge glitch with the coloring and my unprofessional painting technique.
He was sitting at that table—the same as always—distracted until his gaze crossed my eyes.
I looked down, nervous. And luckily I did it because the tray began to shake in my arms so I controlled myself.
check, check
He looked to both sides. Surely to check that I was heading towards him and his table.
And yes, I went straight to his table, I did him, I did my plan, I did my calm.
With everything and my hurried walk when I started my day, I can tell you that I am proud of my precision when serving my ice creams.
Proudly the official servant of the cafeteria ha ha.
The container on the left—it was his—contained three scoops of greenish, sweet and sour lemon ice cream, decorated with a hastily cut lemon wedge.
The container on the right -obviously mine- was filled with four balls of different flavors and colors.
An explosively colorful combination.
Cherry, peach, blueberry and orange ice cream. One ball for each flavor.
This time, like the day before, I didn't keep the classic distance between the table, the tray, the ice cream, him, and me. Because —once again— I took a seat in the chair in front of me —which was always— unoccupied— to my wonderful luck—
Ok, now came the moment of concentration. Not for nothing but those containers were heavy as hell on my shoulders.
So carefully—not to spill, break, or waste anything—place the containers one by one on the flat surface of the table. And I hid my tray—sent by the Ice Cream God himself—under the chair, where my "butt" rested.
Don't be alarmed because I already explained to you that I wasn't going to put seven bags of ice cream into his mouth hehe. We haven't leveled up yet.
Take the jar of syrup and sprinkles to give my masterful and delicious touch to my colorful creation.
I looked up at the boy again, finding that he was looking at me terrified.
He would make a terrific actor in a horror movie. Just putting on that same shocked expression, his eyes wide open and his mouth open in horror at a casting call would be selected immediately.
Too bad he didn't follow my advice to be an actor.
I smiled. I still didn't see the reason for her fear but I was amused at the time.
And without waiting for his reaction—because the dish in front of me was more urgent—I began to devour my Picasso work made of ice cream.
I know we talked about concentration, but how did I concentrate if I had the love of my life in front of me?
wait don't get me wrong
He talked about the ice cream
Not from Him—later if we will give it that term but not yet—
My attention, gaze and concentration went from him to the ice cream combination that disgusted pleased.
Combining ice cream needed to be done more often.
He cleared his throat, catching my attention. "What's your name?" he asked, surreptitiously pushing aside the ice cream in front of him, which hadn't even been touched.
I smiled back without saying a word.
He wasn't ready to hear my name. Or maybe I wasn't prepared to see his reaction to doing so.
I did not answer. —out of fear— and I smiled.
I smiled because he was interested in me
I smiled because the nerves wanted to generate short circuits
I smiled because it was what I always did after the storm-and during it-
You may think that I ignored it, that it was wrong not to tell him the truth from the beginning and you may hate me for it, but I do admit that I was selfish.
I didn't tell him for me.
For my emotional well-being
Cause he didn't want to hurt me
And I ended up hurting him.
For never deigning to tell him who he was until it was obvious
I chose the old trusty: run away, disappear until forgotten
I got up from the seat, took my tray, my container—empty—and left.
To wash the dishes because Sarahy was "busy".
I had to climb on a small chair to watch as he was left with nothing but the confusion and intrigue of his partner.
I will confess to you that many times—more than I can admit—I wanted to tell him who I was but I didn't have the courage to do it.
My past was a huge dark empty spot that if it came back to light, it would go up in flames like September 12.
He finished—he always did, until he got sick of the lies—the ice cream. He got up from his seat and walked towards the exit.
I took my hands out of the foam and dried them on my apron.
I snatched a small napkin from the napkin ring and wrote with the first pen —on top of the sink— the answer to the question he was asking himself.
I ran—for about the third time—and intercepted him before he left through that door. Standing in front of him.
I looked at him and smiled.
One of these days my cheekbones and cheeks would be so used to that lip lift that they'd get stuck in a smile.
And I wish my lips had stunned in that way.
I extended my hand—half wet but concealing—towards him holding
the pastel pink napkin characteristic of the place. He took it, brushing his fingers over my hand, sending an electrical current up my arm to my head.
I waited calmly—since I had it, I had to take advantage of it—for him to unfold it and read it.
He didn't read it aloud, but I knew he had done so by the movement of his jet-black eyes scanning the writing.
He looked at me and I smiled—even more than I could—
"My name" I mentioned and without even saying goodbye, I disappeared.
If I was going to leave him in doubt, let it be my way and my style. With a pseudonym that he himself had given me years ago. When her head wasn't a whirlwind of amnesia.
I rest my back on the counter satisfied. It was the third ice cream that had been eaten—complete—so far this week. Doña Camila, Don Ernesto and even the dark girl stopped from their chores to observe without words how he tasted the cold flavor of the dessert that I love so much.
The images of him were like a comedy movie, playing in my mind with each scene of how he closed his eyes, covered his nose, frowned when he decided to put a bite of ice cream in his mouth. How after swallowing he shook his head, and pinched his nose.
It should be a cartoon comedy soap opera, from all the endless laughter that settled in the cafeteria for the rest of the afternoon.
My plan was paying off.
I would return the happiness that was taken from him so young and I would teach him to love what I loved.
He was happy, calm and he could assure that he would start to be.
What did not ensure was what happened next.