On a pleasant September night we are celebrating two months of dating when he, until then quite dark and in love, is pale and static. At the restaurant’s door I see a short girl with huge green eyes. “That’s Laura”, he pronounces with difficulty, guessing it would be his last words before collapsing. “What Laura?”, I ask. “Laura”. In the face of that, I hold my unsuspecting face for a few seconds, until I realize that my skull was shot by the exchange of looks between my love and the slightly siliconized girl.
“You look like a euphoric zombie,” I say in the car, heading back to his apartment. Six feet of flickering rag. He changes music all the time, but he can’t remember how to give the arrow to enter the left. I threaten to take all my things (a coat, a pair of slippers and a pillow) and never come back. He then refuses to speak.
It was five years of relationship, they were going to get married, they started to fight, she left him, he was terrible, that way he doesn’t want to bathe or have soup or live. I am sorry and ask if this is many years old. “No … this was all … in May”. Hi?!
I decide to sleep at my house (I already wanted to make seven years of nervous diarrhea and I thought it was more prudent) and spend the night watching Laura’s Orkut. I analyze every inch of her twelve perfect photos (I couldn’t post more than that, remember?) And I compulsively read, several times, each of the testimonies they left for her: “Oh, Lau-lau, remember that day? Was it too much fo-dah, right? ”. I am calm because I conclude, around five in the morning, that Laura and her friends, despite being beautiful, very tanned and very well-off, are an explosive mixture of intellectual limitation and drug abuse. I’m fine, I’m fine, the parade is won for me.
The next day, at work, I tell the case to about ten people and have them stand around my desk, examining Laura’s photos. All in silence. “Kind of like her, right?” They agree, because they love me. Until a guy lets go: “Look … but you’re a cat, huh ?!”. And a woman nods: “My goodness!”. I expel everyone and try to focus on work. Impossible. I open Orkut every five minutes and go back to scanning the photo in which Laura appears in a bikini playing with a dog. She smiles, a lock of hair falling over her giant, clear eyes with rococo lashes. If I enlarged the view, I might notice a few strands glued to his lips. I keep turning my face to face the image where Laura is lying in a hammock. I want to look you in the eye. Hi, Laura, do you always come here? What am I feeling?
I start to work out, cut my hair, change my style a little, start to like the beach more, invent idiotic nicknames. And I’m not sure what I want with that. I was dying for that boy, but I walk halfway through not wanting to have sex. I think he’s an idiot for having managed to stay with Laura for five years and let her escape. I can only get excited when I imagine him with Laura. Laura on top of him, Laura spooning him, Laura taking a shower with him.
Next week there will be a party. He doesn’t know if he wants to go because “she’ll be there!” I’m really excited. But I call it jealousy, obsession, envy, possessiveness. I call this “I’m hopelessly in love with this guy and I can’t lose him.” I am going to the party. I follow Laura to the bathroom. I follow Laura in line to get a drink. What does her hair smell like? I want to break up with my boyfriend just to be Laura at that moment. I’m almost writing a statement for Laura. I can’t work or sleep anymore. I want her to see my bikini and my dog and my pose in the hammock. I want her to remove the hair that stuck to my lips.
Oh, Laura, how I suffered! And to think that 18 years later I will find you in another restaurant. I’m already married, with a daughter. When I freeze, my heart races, I become a euphoric zombie, a flickering rag. My husband asks me what I have. I have good taste.
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