El juego
Luego, sin dudarlo, me acerqué a él y le dije que el piano lanzaba flechas y que una de ellas había atravesado mi corazón. Lorenzo se rió, con la boca, pero también con los ojos, y sentí que sería feliz si esa sonrisa fuera lo primero que viera cada mañana, pero no me atreví a decirle ese pensamiento tonto, porque sabía que, como las plantas, algunas cosas necesitan tiempo para crecer.
Así empezó nuestra historia: como un juego. Un ritual de miradas, instintos y deseo. Sentir que éramos compatibles provocaba escalofríos, mariposas, temblores en nuestros cuerpos. Luego, poco a poco, nos volvimos inseparables, cómplices, amantes. Él y yo, como expertos, hicimos de nuestros cuerpos los instrumentos más sonoros, melodiosos y perfectos en las manos del otro.
Desde ese día, cada noche, mientras toco el arpa, le digo a Lorenzo que toque su piano como lo hacía antes. Cada día juego a escucharlo, a ver cómo una vez más, un cupido camina entre nosotros. Yo juego a escucharlo; Lorenzo juega a seguir vivo.
La imagen fue editada en Canva, y el texto fue traducido con Deepl Translate
HASTA UNA PRÓXIMA OPORTUNIDAD, AMIGOS
![Click here to read in englis]
Like every night, when I start playing Cupid's harp, I tell Lorenzo, my husband, that let's play at falling in love again, like the first time. He starts playing the piano and accepts the challenge I give him. As we play our instruments, we see a little winged child appear among the furniture and start shooting arrows at us that hit our chests. Sometimes Lorenzo is the first to be struck, other times I am the first to fall, just like I did that day. Because when we met, Lorenzo was playing the piano in a bar I went to with a friend. I remember that his sad appearance caught my attention and I couldn't help but feel attracted, not only by his musical skill, but also because being there, he seemed distant, unreachable.
Then, without hesitation, I approached him and told him that the piano shot arrows and that one of them had pierced my heart. Lorenzo laughed, with his mouth, but also with his eyes, and I felt that I would be happy if that smile was the first thing I saw every morning, but I didn't dare to tell him that silly thought, because I knew that, like plants, some things need time to grow.
It was after that that I told him I had a harp at home, which I sometimes played for my friends, and he became curious to hear me, and that’s how he heard me for the first time. I remember that after the second piece, Lorenzo came up to me and said that from my harp had also come out a little child with small wings, with bow and arrow, very funny, that one of those arrows had hit him and that now he would die of love for me. Apparently, Cupid had done his job.
That’s how our story began: like a game. A ritual of glances, instincts, and desire. Sensing that we were compatible caused shivers, butterflies, tremors in our bodies. Then little by little, we became inseparable, accomplices, lovers. He and I, like experts, made of our bodies the most sonorous, melodious, and perfect instruments in each other’s hands.
But one day, Lorenzo's sadness was no longer just an idea, but a shadow, a shadow that followed him everywhere. Fatigue kept him from playing my harp, and neither could I play with his piano. His hands, just like his body, started to become stiff, to hurt. Then came the dizziness, the vomiting, the weight loss. There were no more cupids wandering among the instruments, shooting arrows at us as we ran like children playing hide-and-seek. After that came the outcome. From that day on, every night, while I play the harp, I tell Lorenzo to play his piano as he used to. Every day I play at listening to him, at seeing how once again, a cupid walks among us. I play at listening; Lorenzo plays at still being alive.
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