Por qué me hice puta (Parte nº 1)

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Javier thought "what are you going to say, if I paid for this job? Luis Cortés visited Kika without warning, in Madrid.

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In the heart of a hot summer night, which ended unexpectedly, sitting on the grass of the boulevard of Arturo Soria Street, struggling with the tears that bathed his eyes and did not let him read the piece of his diary that he had prepared for her, and the letter he had just written: I am in Madrid, with the hope that we will see each other again, of sharing these papers with you, of verifying my suspicion that when we are face to face it will be as if the time has not passed, that we will continue as cool as we were, that we will talk endlessly, laugh at the world and ourselves, remembering how pathetic we were and guessing why things happened as they did.

Javier still did not know if his book was good or not. But the famous writer who was going to present him began to read his novel, and could not stop until it was finished. And Javier's poet friend read it too, and more people with judgment, and everyone liked it, and suddenly he began to believe that yes, he had created something that could make people feel, arouse interest, excite: Literature.

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And Javier talked about all that on the radio and on television, believing what he said, and presented his novel on a magical night in June , in Madrid, in front of one hundred and twenty attonished people, and Javier was a writer, and Javier was happy. Luis Cortés had lunch with Cita, and ended up giving her euros. And from that first encounter with his eternal platonic love he came out with a fool face, and without an answer to the question he wanted to ask her. I remember you with freshness, maybe because we were so young then.

I took everything with a certain dose of irony and humor, within the expected suffering in my role as an unrequited platonic lover. The final outcome was somehow funny, although then the drama provoked an unbearable suffering, and somehow I wanted to die.

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I think we told and explained everything, maybe we just need to understand why we are so far away and so suddenly, why we disappeared from our lives without. Javier became a writer, and he continued to write. Javier was already living in Arabia, and there he imagined himself in love with some black eyes, hidden behind an impenetrable niqab, and wrote that love story.

He also wrote about some green eyes that put his world upside down, without remedy, until the madness stopped making sense and the cruel reality returned him to the cruel reality. Javier explored the limits of poetry, and the micro stories that fit in an Instagram post and nobody reads, and those that are written with a number of words that you can count on the fingers of one hand, and no longer knew if he was doing literature or not, distracted as he was in counting the "likes" received in each of his "posts".

I need at least to be sure that you know I loved you, although everything ended so badly, that despite the petty, selfish and cruel that I was with you, even though I did not give you anything, not a minute of real pleasure, a pinch of Sincerity or truth, you entered my life as a ray of light, I fell in love, you were a perfect woman and I threw away that lottery that had touched me without playing it. And one night a distant reader contacted Javier to tell him that he was reading No fucking photo, that he was loving it, and Javier imagined himself in the skin of that reader, and waited for him in the next corner of the story, crouching, guessing with anxiety his reaction to the next scene, to the next turn of the action.

Tipo 2: El putero de rostro humano.

There were many more readers, more questions, more nights of comments, and each one of them Javier was the happiest man in the world, and he wondered if that would have been worth so much effort, so many hours of corrections and doubts, if all that was being a writer, although he already knew the answer. I loved you so much, Maga, that at least I want that to be clear to you, in case you have forgotten, in case you thought that everything was a lie or a dream. I loved you so much, you helped me so much, you changed me so much I hope you do not disappear from my life another twenty years, wherever you are.

And I also want you to know that I never forgot you, that I have missed you all these years, in an imprecise but permanent way, that I have kept your letters, that you were such a deep part of me in so important moments, when I matured, when I became the man that I am now, in a few months of madness in which I did so many things, in which I dared with everything, but in which in the end I found no space for you, shame on me.

He wanted to live the trip he had only imagined, to see if it was possible for someone to experience the things that happened to Luis Cortés. Javier met up with Kika, who read the novel, and came back to see him again, and brought him a picture from the old days.

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And Kika wanted to kiss him, and travel with him, and love him, even though Kika was dead, and she knew it. Javier met the Duchess, who read the novel in 24 hours, and told him that she was still in love, that she had always loved him, and Javier looked and looked at the picture that she had brought, and smiled without saying a word. Javier talked for hours with Carolina, who was like the Carolina he had imagined.

And she explained to Javier how he had left her, so many years ago, she repeated every word he uttered, in his ramshackle Red Mini, the night he broke her heart.


Javier apologized again, although it was no longer necessary. Javier is still looking for Cita and Maga, who somewhere in the world hope to read those journals that Luis Cortés already brought to them, because there are stories that have not yet been written, and someday will be written. And Luis Cortés returned home, at the end of his trip, to meet his wife, Amalia. I have not written to you for a long time, I have not thought about you in depth for a long time, without distractions, a long time since I do not review what you have been and what you are in my life.

I have not asked for your forgiveness for a long time, I have not kissed you with passion, or squeeze you the way you like, too long since I do not run my tongue on yours, caress your hips, tickle your back. Long ago, Amalia, I do not tell you that I love you, how miraculous it is that what I feel for you has survived these years of children, of startles, of exhausting work, of tons of sacrifices, crushing us without compassion, moving us away of the other unintentionally.

Long ago I do not tell you how amazing your body is, unrelenting winner against the passage of time and four births, after so much you have given, forgetting yourself in a systematic and meticulous way, every minute, every hour of the day, of each day of this marriage and this family that have been the only reason for your life for so long. Today I decided to do it. There is a character in the novel that Javier did not have in his diaries.

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  • Sabela crossed unexpectedly in the journey of Luis Cortés, and collapsed so many things, in such a short time, that this meeting made everything else possible. And the walk through Madrid is a walk through the sky, so unexpected, with a woman who has just met and who has disarmed him, who has knocked down in a couple of hours barriers raised for decades, and his world is turned upside down when the climb the stairs to the second floor, there is no elevator, and the head is spinning a little more than necessary, and the heart beats a little faster than he would like On March 24, , exactly 3 weeks ago, Javier met Sabela at the Brussels airport, for three hours, a few meters from the boarding gate from which she had left his life, not to return, two years ago.

    With their hands clasped over the crumbs of a ham and cheese croissant that they had not been able to finish, Sabela looked at Javier and said "I still love you", and everything seemed to make sense for a few minutes, the time it took for Javier to return to be Luis, and Luis to be Javier again. The time it took Sabela to get on a plane to India, and Javier in another back to Arabia, where there were no longer any green eyes to look at.

    Where only dreams and broken promises remain, and the noise of a future that flutters restlessly, headless and menacing, perhaps promising. A future without proper names, where the echo of other "I love you" goes off without remission. I want to feel again, I want to have her by my side. I want to hear her voice, that song,. That horrible end, in the middle of a month of May. I want to write again, I want to feel again.

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    Wanting everything is not bad. Vista Web Vista Móvil. Instituto Cervantes Beirut. Javier se hizo escritor. Luis Cortés encontró a La Duquesa en Alicante, en el inicio de su viaje. Javier descubrió que estaba solo en su sueño. Javier fue escritor, y siguió escribiendo. Javier quiere seguir siendo escritor. Quiero oír su voz, esa canción, aquel verso asesino, apasionado. At the end of the fragment of the diaries that he left with her he also wrote a letter, which closed with this sentence: And you enlightened and overshadowed my days, for many years, you nourished my desires, my passions and my heart with more strength than any other living creature that I have encountered on this planet.

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