Yo-Yo Boing!

— Watch and learn to handle the locks, effortlessly. The rusty one for the bottom hole, a jiggle to the left, and this skinny one for the top slot. You do this just to annoy me. And you do. You certainly do. Nunca. Oíste. No estoy enamorada. Miento. Abúlicamente. No te quiero. Me entiendes. A veces te digo que te quiero, por la noche, la intimidad, digo, antes de acostarme, te veo tan puro roncar, y entonces, un perro manso, cómo lo pude haber tratado tan mal. Maybe it’s then that I forget what I’m missing in life. But of course, it’s like seeing a corpse, of course, all the good things appear, and I breathe heavy, and murmur deep into your ears: I love you. And you continue sleeping but dándome la espalda, acomodándote con mis patas por el medio, la tripa, que sube y que baja, y el dedo pulgar en la boca, te volviste bebé, chupándote el dedo, lulipup, qué manganzón, el zángano éste, tan grande y tan bribón. I shake my head no, no, no, no, but I love you, I guess I do, at least that’s what I feel and think when I see you sleeping. Maybe it’s a way of convincing myself that I do. Jabalí had something, a pushing something, a driving energy, even with all his short cuts and lies. But you, my buddy-buddy, busy-body, are indulgent with me. Sweet and complacent. Why do I always have to throw a hairy conniption to provoke a reaction. If I had another room, if I could close myself away from you, if I would not have to hear you snoring, lights out, dozing dog. I don’t have the energy to sit at my desk and write two simple words. I crawl back in bed, breathing heavy on your cheeks. When I see you dead like that I realize how much we have in common. Where is my aspiration? To feel inspired one must aspire. What do I aspire to be: to be inspired, or at least to have a freehold set of mind, free from mental blocks. A house too small, a bad excuse but one nonetheless. Nothing on the road so keep walking, bad and good times, anxiety raining on me — don’t get upset by the downpour, drenching the brain, think clear — but I can’t. The problem comes when I realize I have done nothing and I’m still in bed rocking — waiting for Godot or a change of climate. I get so angry at myself that I stand up and write my rage and feel good again and I change, and I change, and I change, but I never really change. Oh, I skim through the book and I say it’s growing. So strong. So beautiful. I forgive myself momentarily as I do when I look at my big nose in the mirror. If I stare at it long enough sometimes I can fix it, or at least accept it, depending on my mood. I would like to see myself in the mirror always the same, or maybe like a stranger in the street at whom I smile and stare because I see in him something I see in myself. I always stare to make sure I’m not lost. Do you recognize me. You’re staring at me and you smile, why? Do you like me? I’d like to ask you a question. Would you smile at me the same way if you knew who I am? Would you still smile so sweet? Y tú sabes lo que para mí significa levantarme azorada a media noche, y primero, hace un calor enervante que me sofoca, y luego que he apagado el heater, me voy al baño y veo ahí mismo, frente a frente a mis ojos, las puertas del closet no sólo abiertas, peor aún, de sus gavetas cuelgan unas sábanas, the incarnation of my nightmare, esos muertos despiertos, y no son los buenos. Intento cerrar la puerta, y se atora, y los ghosts guindando. Y te lo he pedido, por favor, hay que limpiar los closets, hieden los zapatos, y el olor a gato sudado que tienen los sweatshirts. Y voy a la cocina porque tengo la garganta reseca, coño, tú sabes, el calor, abro la nevera, y mi botella de agua, ¿dónde está el tapón de mi botella de agua? Tú no sabes que le entran germs, pierde el fizz, y no me gusta que el agua huela como tu chicken curry sandwich, ésta ya no sirve, ya nadie toma agua de esta botella. I forbid it. I’m throwing it out. Me acerco al maldito dishwasher, y ahí mismo, los trastos desbordán-dose del fregadero, millones de años sin lavarse, llenos de carrot peels y globs of brie pegados de sus rims. Y esto ya es demasiado para mí. Ya no aguanto más. Esas malditas keys abriendo y cerrando las cerraduras. Y durante los weekends, tu insolencia es inaudita. At least, durante la semana, soy dichosa, when I hear you leave at eight. Libertad—me digo a mí misma, con los ojos entrecerrados. Puedo leer en paz. Y si veo a Bloom mirando desde un risco a Gerty, y se toca su prepucio, y me dan ganas, no tengo más que cerrar la cortina que acabo de abrir, y dejarme ir. Qué rico. Una distracción de tu careta. Pero ahora, si yo no me levanto, tú no te levantas, pones el alarm para nada, just to piss me off, and snore some more, hasta las diez. Porque eso sí, yo tengo un alarm por dentro. Cuando me despierto, tú sabes que estás en peligro y me dices:

— Breakfast? Orange juice? Croissant?