Dishonest Reality

By Klemente Cisneros

                  
          She was, perhaps, the most beautiful woman that my eyes ever wanted to see. She was, no doubt, the book that I most enjoyed reading from all the others that I didn’t understand and the ones I believed to comprehend. It was her open eyes, the page where I was distracted for the most time to kill my seconds, which I no longer considered important. It was her, the index of all my desires and everything I wanted to travel through each moment. It was I falling in love with those moments that suddenly happened without a call. It was the confidence that after her there’d be no other choice but to remember her for the rest of my days. The sum of everything after her was to compare her with the others. Every and each attitude in which I knew she could not be equaled. Because, it is this simple: we choose a person in our lifetime to make of her our particular image of perfection, imperfect, with all the hateful details and all the beautiful features that we shall ever remember. 

Somebody should have told me this was what I imagined; that I'd go through every ending of every chapter, plentiful, that the book seemed infinite. Somebody should have told me I would miss him, that it would hurt, and that I would never stop thinking of him like a whore, like a saint, and like my savior in the darkest of my days. He was going to be my wisdom, my oblivion, my conclusions, and my unrequited questions. He was going to be my all. Somebody should have told him I keep thinking of him. Someone should have told me about death, my death; about the night I waited for him believeing about the promised times. Somebody should have foreseen that my story was going to be like the rest of us: ephemeral, promising, and painful. Someone should have told me this was going to happen. Then, I wouldn’t have done it, and later regret it for the rest of my life. Somebody should have told him not to die in my thoughts every single day.

I met her on the road, on a trip with a tight itinerary, long walks, and not a single intention of finding her. Right on mile 22 between one place and another, right when the sun set to light up the night, there she was, laughing out loud and passing through my mind as just a thought of liking her. But the thought died right after my prejudices ran onto her body. She was not attractive, interesting, but loud and childish. She was not my fantasy. Not until later when she called my name and after I’d fallen. It was just a matter of time before she knew my name, before she said it twice a day. It was I knowing her for the first time. I had no intention of love, affection, or anything related at the moment, but she managed to awake all those demons I hid for longer that I ever thought. I managed to keep my distance and think of him merely as a fantasy; that he would jump in my car and we’d take off to marry the night. But him, with the courage to do it, abruptly cutting everything I ever thought of her not getting in my car, sent my fantasy directly to trash. I could no longer imagine what I’d do to her in the dark, with lit candles, and a bottle of wine, all, because she decided to jump inside. I could no longer feel her without touching. Now, I had to do it in real life. It happened to me just like everyone whose fantasies come true, and she was my favorite fantasy. She was, while we were together, after she left, and before she died. She was my fantasy the first time she put his head on my shoulder, the first time her lips touched mine, and after she gave me a hard time holding my urge to rip her clothes out and make her mine on the first night. I could never finish her body. I could never touch her face and feel guilty for caressing something so soft it could break at the sightless rose of my calloused hands. I could never give her a final kiss. Thus, every night I close my eyes and start numbering all the kisses I never gave her, every touch, and every word. I make a list of everything I have to do the next time I see her, perhaps, the next time I make her mine. But the next day just comes around to remind me she is gone. I got stuck on his memory. He got stuck in my heart.

The easy part about our relationship was before I never had him. Missing is easy when you have nothing physically to hold on to. Later, I wanted things to end before it was over, before I became attached. But when I fell in love, after he was gone, I wanted things to end more than anything because my life was running out. He was my dream, although, perhaps I was his nightmare. I was his interrupted orgasm and he was all my wet dreams. I was consumed each day, living him extremely, feeling him extremely, and loving him extremely. Therefore, he needed to go, dead, and forever. But he had to live, tough, for I could to miss him and think he’d come back someday. For as much as I wanted to, I could never stay away. Yet, I could never stay close. I never was so far away from someone so close, nor so close to someone now that he was gone. Some days I believe he never actually got into my car on that mile 22 that day in the fall. Maybe I was the one who remained on that part of the road to never come back. I think invented love with him and never actually happened because I like to live between reality and fantasy. Maybe I never met him, maybe I never was.

Perhaps everything it’s just a made up tale because her love was so little that it wasn’t enough to continue our story. She was so eager bout adventure. I was so willing to tell them with her. But our times weren’t right because she had her prejudices ahead of her, while I had my insecurities buried deep in my past. Thus, all my will and all my excitement got exhausted by the words of the same story, of the weakness of my pride, and the emptiness of her answers.  We could not be compatible. That’s why she died. That’s why we died. That’s why I’m here not able to remember what was true and what is a lie. I don’t remember her name, even though I gave her many to tell everyone about her and know her everywhere. I don't even know if it was her... or him. I dressed her in many outfits, in many shoes. I remember her always. I put him in my wall, in the corner of my memory where I can find her, where she’s real, but also where she can’t find me so often that I don’t run out of nights. She was everything and I… I did what I could.

This is my story and I tell it every time I can. I like to add some things that might not be real, like that he was here, with me that perhaps never happened. I don’t know if I even had him or I just imagined it after the mile 22. I really don’t know, but I like to know I did and taste it every time. Sometimes, the midnight breeze caries his perfume. Other times certain foods taste like his lips and let me know I did everything for him and for you; to meet you half way, to look interesting with my shadow stomped by failure and dead memories. It’s been a while since I looked very abundant of these moments of felicity. Now I take another road to let the world turn, hoping that next time around someone can make up the inconclusive sentences of my story he was too scared to finish. I want to be able to walk on the mile 22 and see the sun without a pain in my heart, hoping I keep on going and perhaps ,with a little luck, I never lose my path. But if I do, I hope I lose it holding someone else's hand. 

In this nasty world that sometimes is very beautiful but most times wicked, why don't you lie to me? What’s your story? What’s your end, the parts that you remember the most? I invented love with him. Perhaps with a little holes and hollow details, but it's real. I ask you to invent your own love with someone. Then I shall call you some day and have a drink together for you can tell me your story. Tell me, friend, what are your ways of invention? Tell me how you did it and where you met her. I will tell you my story and you will interrupt me saying my story was beautiful, but your story is even more. Invent anything to make sense of everything that happened; because we forget. Sometimes we remember, the beginning, the middle, and most of all, the entire end of the relationship; but other times we're left with empty spaces and end up with a sad story. And we tell it to ourselves, without pause, in the solitude of our minds, alone. That makes us smile a little but makes us cry a lot. Make up for the little details that aren't there anymore and make of them a happy ending. It might be a dishonest reality, but, at least, you will not be sorry. 

Love,

Klemente