Barcelona Metropolis

I didn’t know that sometimes we forget about forgetting, that this memory that had robbed us of so much of our sleep, this possibility that planned a parallel and secret life, can be buried, on account of its utopian and elusive nature, among the ramblings of everyday life. To shake off the overwhelming facts that lead nowhere is what most people call “maturing”, but, I believe the verb “faltering” would be more fitting.

I was sick of being alone. Six months had passed since my third partner had left me, and the house, after weeks and hours of being idle, was collapsing in on me. We shy, self-centred people can reject ourselves to wicked extremes if we don’t force ourselves to go out, so I aimlessly wandered the city streets and then forced myself to have a beer in a bar. I rarely spoke to anyone. I just became part of a collective habit. People keep you company even when they ignore you.

That afternoon I was sitting at the bar, where those who have turned their backs on the world usually hang out. A damn cold draught crept up my legs every time someone opened the door, but the beer pumps were dripping with sweat. Empty glasses hung over the bar like glass bells. I turned around just as she, sitting at a table, looked up at the bar.

I recognised her as soon as I set eyes on her. It wasn’t her appearance or her posture: I recognised her because of the feeling she aroused in me, that same stirring as the first time I saw her. It was the same feeling of excitement, the same eyes that couldn’t stop staring at her, the certainty of admiring a sight that will haunt you for days, maybe years. Her hair was longer, her skin more tanned, her shoulders, more sunken perhaps. But it was definitely her. She had the same eyes, the same half-smile, the same mole close to her ear. She often joined in the conversation and laughed. She laughed hard. It was only when she raised her glass to drink that you could make out a certain introspection. She was along with four friends, two other girls and a couple. The tails of her coat trailed on the floor.

I stood there, leaning against the bar, sideways, avidly watching the goings-on at that table. Bewitched. On edge.

Once again, I could picture myself at the back of the bus, sitting on one of those seats with the Eixample grid pattern, admiring her. The lights made her profile look brighter, her hair shinier. Her eyes were dark, her skin fair. I was immediately spellbound. At the time, I didn’t believe in miracles, and spontaneous love was one. For me, love was presented like an ill-understood attraction, a biological mechanism exaggerated by poetry. But she was there.

My feelings for her were undeniable, the connection we felt was genuine. I couldn’t believe I was a character in this story. She got off earlier and watched me from outside the bus, slowing down. I was about to raise my hand to wave goodbye, but I just watched her walk away. Then I realised how stupid it was. It didn’t cross my mind to speak to her, to ask her what her name was. To introduce myself.

I got the feeling that I had, in a way, lost the right to be there. I swigged back the rest of my beer. The rings of foam clinging to the glass could reveal the mood of the drinker, like strata reveal the secrets of the earth to the eyes of a geologist. I couldn’t help turning around to look at her one last time, and I caught one of her friends looking at me. She swiftly looked away. I almost smiled.

I said goodbye to her in my mind.

Outside, the pavement glistened with dampness and the light from the treetops had a fog-like appearance. I pulled the collar of my jacket over my head and breathed in the night air. A few steps away, a cloying, salty smell wafted out of a Chinese restaurant. Soy sauce, mirin. Then someone called out to me without saying my name.

It was her.

She came closer. She didn’t look me in the face until she was standing really close to me. In the light of the street lamps, her dark eyes had a liquid glow. Even before she spoke, I sensed her forbearance.

I felt the same, she said.

She reached out with the intention of taking my hand, but she stopped short, turned around, and walked back into the bar.