All Part and Parcel of a Job

We drove all our way to the shanty town. The poor hut was situated by the brownish streamlet and the house number was written over an irregular piece of metal sheet with black paint. The whole of the house was surrounded by grass and black dogs. In fact, one of the dogs was brown and blind. Its left eye was white.I was wearing a seducing suit which consisted of a tight black skirt, red high heels and a transparent white shirt. Long black hair, extra large eyelashes and the rehearsed smile.My partner wore an Armani Suit. And black glasses. We were both holding black briefcases and as he parked the car and I got off the vehicle everyone in the place had their eyes stuck on us.

The walls of the house were sort of a handmade disaster: they did not have, definitely, the value of handmade stuff but of poverty. 

The guy was lying on bed. He could not move. By the bed, there was a hole on the wall with the intent of becoming someday, maybe, a dignifying window.
The sister started talking, and we heard it all: the day of the accident, the shock of the news, how her father had become blind out of the shock, the sensation of being suspended in space and the blood flowing out of his leg as a cascade.
We had it all rehearsed. The expression of compassion carefully studied to create a sense of trust. The expression of concern in our eyes about the guys future…(When had I become such a bastard, I couldn´t tell…).
Listen, I said, and I paused. I looked at my partner who was still wearing his black sunglasses and had an indifferent face and stood far from bed in an indifferent manner, as trying not to pollute his Armani with all that filth and poverty. God Girl, Bad Guy stuff.
He knew exactly where I was going and said: Please, Isabella, you know the company will not pay that much, do not try to phone them for extra money or we will be in trouble again.
Oh, please Derek, don´t be such a bastard, this guy deserves it, he had a really bad time. I will phone.
Then, I smiled stabbing my black eyes into his and said: I will make the call, for you, joining my lips in a sort of kiss as I said “you”. He blushed. I thought: we are in.
Then I took my cell phone which actually looks more like a tablet and pretended a whole telephone conversation with the company making it clear that I was really fighting for the money of this guy. I was a fantastic actress. I could be in Hollywood.
Then, Derek looked at me with disapproval. I guess you did it again, you never learn we do not do charity. We are lawyers, goddammit.
Oh please, shut up.
Of course I leaned softly towards the earlobe of the guy lying in bed, full of plasters who had being through eight different operations so as not to lose his right leg and purred something like: I got you the five thousand. Now, will you please sign? I slid the Agreement My plunging neckline revealed a bait which called for a: “I will sign whatever you say”.

The guy was nervous, dubitative.

Again my black eyes right into his: Do you trust me? Believe me this is the best agreement you can get.

I put the pen in his hand.
He signs
My job is done.

I spend the night in my bathtube with a bottle of champagne, crying.

Una carta sobre el amor

Empiezo por decirte que

de vos, me gusta tu incapacidad de decir: te quiero. Como si tuvieran que extirpártelo de la garganta con un bisturí.

No me digas: hablemos. Detesto con las vísceras los remolinos cíclicos de retórica barata que buscan resolver cuestiones que solo dependen de los actos y no de enunciados.

Será que prefiero entenderte en la magnitud de lo cotidiano y no encapsulado en el lenguaje.

Por favor no me hables como si fueras mi papá, ya sé que no lo hago todo bien y por sobre todo, no me pienses perfecta, hace rato ya que abandoné ese vicio.

Entendé al drogadicto, es como si me hornearas chipá y me pidieras que no lo pruebe, y me preparas mate, bueno, esa es mi droga, tu compañía.

Paso a paso, a la par, lado a lado, pero no esclavos.

No me pidas todas mis horas, no me exijas todos los cuentos.
No me des todo.

De vos solo quiero la complicidad, el saberte a mi lado, el pelearla juntos, el consejo en medio de la tempestad, pero te quiero libre, te quiero en moto recorriendo el norte, mientras yo en un barco helado me paseo por el Sur.

Te quiero, pero para mi el amor es la exacerbación de la libertad, porque celebra la individualidad y no busca que la pareja sea una cárcel, como exige el amor mediocre.

Nos queda...

A veces del amor solo nos queda
un ejemplar viejo de la poesía de Larreta
edición antigüa

nos queda un buzo rosa
un anillo tirado

una foto escondida en algún cajón
que llama al olvido
y un olvido sin llama
que duerme
cerca del oso de peluche
que escuchó toda la historia

quedan recuerdos fragmentados
una sonrisa, una mano,
el sol de fondo y su risa

la marca del amor tiene 
ese perfume indeleble
del fuego.