Salí a hacer unas compras de víveres a última hora, la temperatura era sofocante así que entré a un local para tomar algo fresco. Me senté en la barra y mientras esperaba mi licuado la vi.
Era parte del personal, estaba casi a mi lado, esperando tal vez la orden para llevarla a una mesa. No podría recordar su rostro si la vuelvo a ver porque mi atención fue robada por otros detalles.
La luz entraba por los cristales coloreados de las ventanas y la rodeaba de una atmósfera de ensueño, irreal, tal vez por eso mi fantasía saltó desde mi cordura y se puso a jugar.
¿Era un tatuaje esa mariposa detrás de su oreja? ¿Eran de verdad solo una prenda esas flores en su cabello?
Tal vez le gustaba llevar flores así, tal vez la mariposa se acercó un día y tranquila, mientras esperaba la oportunidad del néctar, se fue enamorando del lugar, de la calidez, del perfume dulce que usaba, y olvidando por completo la flor se quedó quieta, tan quieta que su sombra y el polvillo de sus alas se grabaron en la piel de la muchacha.
O quizás me equivoco en el orden de la historia. Qué tal que esta chica realmente amara a las mariposas, que hubiera aguardado por meses a que se abriera el capullo que le regaló... el chico de la barra, ese de cabello largo que tanto la acaricia con la mirada. Está decidido, él le regaló el capullo, esa promesa de alas que finalmente se cumplió en un estallido de colores antes de alejarse, liviana, en el viento.
Pero la chica había visto suficiente y dibujó el recuerdo en su propia piel. Compadecida de la soledad de la mariposa, ponía flores en su cabello, peculiar jardín del que no volvería a escapar.
Las ideas se sucedían como un carrusel sin frenos, me martillaban, ¿qué fue primero: la mariposa o la flor? Tanta poesía, tanto misterio, la luz, el muchacho, el perfume.
-Señora, su licuado
-¿Qué me dices?
-El licuado de banana, lo que usted quería
-¡Qué vas a saber de lo que quiero!
-¿...?
-Dime, ¿esa muchacha, el tatuaje?.
-Lo siento, señora, en este local no servimos historias.
Esta publicación se escribió sin usar IA. La imagen es mía y los banners se crearon en Canva
I went out to do some last-minute grocery shopping; the temperature was stifling, so I went into a place to get something cool. I sat at the bar, and while I was waiting for my smoothie, I saw her.
She was part of the staff, almost right next to me, perhaps waiting for my order to take it to a table. I wouldn't be able to remember her face if I saw her again because my attention was stolen by other details.
The light streamed in through the tinted windows and surrounded her with a dreamlike, unreal atmosphere. Perhaps that's why my fantasy leaped out of my sanity and began to play.
Was that butterfly behind her ear a tattoo? Were those flowers in her hair really just a piece of jewelry?
Perhaps she liked wearing flowers like that. Perhaps the butterfly approached one day and, quietly, while waiting for its chance to savour the nectar, fell in love with the place, the warmth, the sweet perfume it used, and, completely forgetting the flower, remained still, so still that its shadow and the dust of its wings were etched into the girl's skin.
Or perhaps I'm mistaken about the order of the story. What if this girl truly loved butterflies, that she had waited for months for the bud to open that the boy at the bar gave her, the one with the long hair who caresses her with his gaze. It was decided, he gave her the bud, that promise of wings that was finally fulfilled in a burst of color before drifting away, lightly, in the wind.
But the girl had seen enough and drew the memory on her own skin. Taking pity on the butterfly's loneliness, she put flowers in her hair, a peculiar garden from which she would never escape.
The ideas followed one another like a carousel without brakes, hammering at me. What came first: the butterfly or the flower? So much poetry, so much mystery, the light, the boy, the perfume.
-Ma'am, your smoothie.
-What are you saying?
-The banana smoothie, what you wanted.
-What do you know about what I want!
-¿...?
-Tell me, that girl, the tattoo?
-I'm sorry, ma'am, we don't serve stories in this place.
This post was written without the use of AI. The image belong to me, and the banners were created in Canva