Combustión
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Esa reputación, como un animal acechando a su presa, siguió a Lalo durante toda la universidad, y aunque tuvo algunas novias en varias ocasiones, esas relaciones duraron solo un momento, tal vez por culpa de Lalo, tal vez por culpa de las chicas, o tal vez por culpa de esos rumores que ponían en duda su hombría. Pero lo único constante a lo largo de esos años fue su amistad con Antonio, que con el tiempo se había convertido en su sombra, su confidente, su mano derecha.
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Estaban a punto de graduarse cuando Lalo, después de ir a recoger un documento, le confesó a Antonio su deseo de irse del país: "Quizás lejos de aquí pueda vivir la vida que quiero", le confesó. Su mirada fija en la carretera mientras maniobraba el volante le impidió ver la sombra que cruzó la mirada de Antonio. Ese día transcurrió lentamente, pero con normalidad, sin contratiempos. Pasaron todo el día buscando sellos y firmas, requisitos para cerrar esa etapa de la universidad. El cansancio los llevó a aparcar cerca de un muelle abandonado. Allí, Lalo sacó una botella y bebieron unos tragos directamente de ella. Antonio apenas hablaba, pero eso no era inusual. Lo que sí era inusual era la mirada de animal muerto que tenía en la cara desde la tarde. Lalo, por su parte, hablaba sin parar y repetía lo que siempre decía cuando estaba borracho.
_No me gustan los hombres para nada, chamo, me gustan las mujeres. Me gusta su olor, su cuerpo, todo lo que tienen. Nunca he estado con un hombre. Lalo miraba al frente, apenas capaz de mantener los ojos abiertos.
_No sé quién demonios se inventó todas esas historias, quién puso esos mensajes en el baño, quién le dijo a Candy que yo era un gay de closet.
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Cuando Antonio estuvo seguro de que el sueño había vencido a Lalo, le masajeó lentamente el cuello a su amigo. Se quedó allí un rato observando a Lalo, que parecía indefenso. Suspiró y, sin perder tiempo, Antonio salió y se dirigió al tanque de gasolina del carro, sacó un poco y luego roció el coche con el líquido inflamable. Metió la mano en uno de sus bolsillos y sacó un yesquero. Mientras lo encendía y lo lanzaba sobre la línea que había hecho con la gasolina, miró su mano y recordó sus manos adolescentes, sucias de marcadores mientras rayaban las paredes. Incluso entonces, sabía que quería a Lalo con todo el fuego que llevaba dentro, y también sabía que la gente cree las historias escritas en los baños públicos.
La imagen principal es de libre uso y editada en Canva, y el texto fue traducido con Deepl Translate
HASTA UNA PRÓXIMA OPORTUNIDAD, AMIGOS
![Click here to read in englis]
Lalo and Antonio had always been great friends, even after rumors began circulating in high school that Lalo was strange and liked to hang out with other boys behind the sports field after 6 p.m., when everyone else was heading home and the darkness provided cover for them to be invisible. The dirty walls of the high school bathrooms were covered with stories about Lalo, recounting in explicit detail what Lalo liked to do and have done to him. But Antonio, a shy, pale, and thin boy, despite all those stories, remained Lalo's friend. In fact, one could say that those rumors made their bonds of friendship closer and more lasting, since Lalo, after that fame, felt that no classmate wanted to approach him, and Antonio was so shy and dull that he could barely exchange a word with anyone.
That reputation, like an animal stalking its prey, followed Lalo all the way through college, and although he had a few girlfriends on several occasions, those relationships lasted only a moment, perhaps because of Lalo, perhaps because of the girls, or perhaps because of those rumors that cast doubt on his manhood. But the only constant throughout those years was his friendship with Antonio, who over time had become his shadow, his confidant, his right-hand man.
They were about to graduate when Lalo, after going to pick up a document, confessed to Antonio his desire to leave the country: “Maybe far from here I can live the life I want,” he confessed. His gaze on the road as he maneuvered the steering wheel prevented him from seeing the shadow that crossed Antonio's gaze. That day passed slowly but normally, without any setbacks. They spent the whole day looking for stamps and signatures, requirements to close that stage of university. Exhaustion led them to park near an abandoned pier. There, Lalo took out a bottle and they drank a few shots straight from the bottle. Antonio barely spoke, but that wasn't unusual. What was unusual was the dead animal look he had had on his face since the afternoon. Lalo, on the other hand, talked nonstop and repeated what he always said when he was drunk.
“I don't like men, man, I like women. I like their smell, their bodies, everything about them. I've never been with a man.” Lalo stared straight ahead, barely able to keep his eyes open. “I don't know who the hell made up all those stories, who put those messages in the bathroom, who told Candy that I was a closeted gay man.”
When Antonio was certain that sleep had overcome Lalo, he slowly massaged his friend's neck. He stood there for a while watching Lalo, who seemed helpless. He sighed, and without wasting any time, Antonio got out and went to the gas tank, took out a little, then surrounded the car with the strong liquid. He reached into one of his pockets and took out a lighter. As he lit it and threw it onto the line he had made with the gasoline, he looked at his hand and remembered his teenage hands, dirty with markers as they scratched walls. Even then, he knew that he loved Lalo with all the fire he had inside him, and he also knew that people believe the stories written in public restrooms.