Aítana llora bailando
Luego está Agustín, su novio desde hace siglos, que cada vez que puede se lo dice: "Ya no eres la joven de la que me enamoré". Y Aítana lo mira y Agustín también ha cambiado. No solo es su incipiente calvicie, su abultada barriga de cervecero, su manía insoportable de comerse las uñas o la nueva idea de ser vegano; también es su falta de afecto, de palabras tiernas, de abrazos sin motivos. Sin embargo Aítana calla, respira hondo y desafía la crueldad de las palabras con una sonrisa.
En el trabajo tampoco es diferente. Su cuerpo va de mesa en mesa, cruzando umbrales malolientes, respirando aires impuros: las propinas también han disminuido, así como su belleza. Sin embargo, Aítana entrega sonrisas de alimento a los clientes, que vienen de paisajes heridos con sus miradas precarias, labios afilados, palabras puñales que abren la piel con cada grito: "Traéme otra cerveza, vieja", "Múevete, que es pa' ahorita, no pa' mañana", dicen y lanzan las carcajadas como un escupitajo pestilente.
Desde hace rato el espejo es un enemigo: su tarea es mostrarle a Aítana la erosión del tiempo. Los ojos de Agustín también son un bloque de hielo cuando la miran. Pero Aítana también le sonríe al espejo, como le sonríe a Agustín. Ella camina entre las mesas bailando, en mitad de la jauría, en mitad del huracán de críticas, con sus desgastadas turgencias, mientras un captus le crece dentro del cuerpo.
HASTA UNA PRÓXIMA HISTORIA, AMIGOS
![Click here to read in english]
Aítana cries dancing
Aítana looks in the mirror and doesn't like what she sees. Her companions at the bar have told her that she looks old, tired and haggard. Her arrogant beliefs say that she should have some touch-ups: "Maybe inject your lips, your eyebrows, your cheekbones, Aítana". Instead, she only looks at her face for crucial traces of her life, as rich in adventures as it is prodigal in tragedies. Every wrinkle, every blemish, every imperfection speaks of life: of her bonds, of her feelings, from the most everyday to the most transcendent.
Then there is Agustín, her boyfriend for centuries, who every chance he gets tells her: "You are no longer the young woman I fell in love with." And Aítana looks at him and Agustín has changed too. It is not only his incipient baldness, his bulging beer belly, his unbearable mania for biting his nails or the new idea of being vegan; it is also his lack of affection, of tender words, of hugs for no reason. Yet Aítana keeps quiet, takes a deep breath and defies the cruelty of words with a smile.
At work she is no different either. Her body goes from table to table, crossing smelly thresholds, breathing impure air: the tips have also diminished, as has her beauty. However, Aítana delivers nourishing smiles to the customers, who come from wounded landscapes with their precarious looks, sharp lips, dagger words that open the skin with every shout: "Bring me another beer, old woman", "Move over, it's pa' ahorita, no pa' mañana", they say and throw the laughter like a pestilent spit.
For a while now the mirror has been an enemy: its task is to show Aítana the erosion of time. Augustine's eyes are also a block of ice when they look at her. But Aítana also smiles at the mirror, as she smiles at Agustín. She walks among the tables dancing, in the middle of the pack, in the middle of the hurricane of criticism, with her worn turgidity, while a captus grows inside her body.