El Hermoso is asking why I didn't say goodbye last night. A wrinkle forms on his intelligent forehead, and his soft eyes search mine. The milonga was a perfect confusion of dancers and soft light and the cries of Tito Reyes' Frente al espejo.
Me pregunto vida mía, alma mía, qué ha pasado
que ya no estás más a mi lado y no sé encontrarte más.
And while he held me in our old close embrace, I thought of all the things that used to mean something to us. We used to speak of all the things in this song, and all we talked about last night was placement of feet and offers of cold encouragement. I would never allow myself to cry again in his presence.
Luego, a solas, y de pie frente al espejo
yo no sé a quién desprecio
si a mí mismo, si al alcohol... o a la vida
Later, by myself right in front of the mirror
I don't know whom I despise
if it's myself, if it's the alcohol ... or life
Last night El Hermoso let the music soak through his skin until it flowed into mine, and our skins melted together. It was too much pain; it was too much pleasure.
I look into El Hermoso's kind eyes, and his hand trails down mine, uncalculated comfort.
'I had a headache,' I say. 'Forgive me.' And, as always, he does.
No comments:
Post a Comment