City lights.


Sword Master: Peleas como un granjero.
Guybrush Threpwood: Muy apropiado: tú peleas como una vaca-.
(The Secret of Monkey Island, Lucasarts 1990).

Sometimes, at night, he would just wander around the city, dragging his feet along every familiar spot he had previously visited with Her, yet not doing it knowingly: he would appear at all those places as if by chance, each time in a different order and following a different route, just to end up getting caught by his own reflection on the dusty windows of the formerly-being coffee shop, where they would meet after the lessons to study together; or striding past and hardly looking at the specially painful memory that lured him from the shadows of that doorway, near her bus stop, where they had been close to fuck eachother´s brains out that one night, after half a dozen of beers.
Also, he would never sit again at that spot in the Wurlitzer Ballroom, where they had kissed for the first time after almost a year of pretending that nothing was going on between them.
He wouldn´t think, he would just do.

Most of the nights, he would end up feeling a lump of wet ashes down his throat. Sitting down somewhere near his home, smoking a cigarette and trying to blow rings into the wind, he felt that he had looked back so often that, finally, he had broken his neck.

And that all that bullshit about a world without borders and distances was actually true, but had nothing to do with artificial networks, planes or cash-flow, but with veins, smells, flesh and thoughts.

Deep into one´s heart, the world was small and connected, time-zones didn´t exist, and different moments and people could be molten, shaped and fused into just one feeling: saudade.


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