Hello, here Zuzia and Inés, we are excited to share with something new. Having already had our portion of caffeine, we’ve come up with an idea that will require extra energy, time and… creativity. Are you all ears? Yes? Perfect! Bascially, we want to challange ourselves to write a short text, once per week. It is a challange because both of us have to create a written form that starts or ends with the same sentence. You must have noticed we both love writing and, what’s better, we love each other texts.
Don’t you think it is going to be challanging and fun at the same time? There is one little job on your side, guys that includes reading, commenting and coming up with new topics!
So, here we go!
“I have an idea…”
“I have an idea“, she said. I knew it would be an idea I’d personally never come up with however it would not be anything impossible. She seats there, in front of me, at the other side of the table with no angles. No angles, no divisions, just 360 degrees of patience. I am catching a glance of her:
fireworks around her head; no fireworks, just loose curls of blond hair.
“It is gonna be something short, right?“, she lowers her voice asking with that particular English – Spanish accent. I nod, there is no more attention on my side. Suddenly, she breaks the silence again , or, more correctly, the sound of Tchaikowsky in the background. “I have problem with writing in English“, she shares with me, her eyes full of self – doubt. I observe her trying to create. I nod again. “I’m struggling too“, I’d like to add but I don’t , I don’t want to lose time. We have no time, no time to spare.
I look at her, a Spaniard with blond hair, sitting on the opposite side of table, table with no angles, with 360 degress of creativity.
“It is and idea that both of us write a story starting or fnishing with the same sentence“, she introduces me to the game. I like the idea, as soon as she shares her thought with me. I quickly start to analyze alternatives while she is staring at me with a plastic pen in her mouth, slightly open, probably also thinking hard. “Now let’s just choose a topic“, then she suggests coffee, me camera. God, we are sisters; but Sisters-That-We-Chose, we know so well each other, the complementary choices we’ve just made.
15 minutes later:
“I am about to finish“, she says at the moment I am coming back to the cafe’s table. I sit down. take pen in my hand, write down these words and I start to feel fear that the moment is about to finish. “I’m done“, she sannounces another five minutes later, then takes quickly a mobile phone in her hand and continues smiling. “You know, the place we are now was settled by the man who served us, he runs it with his partner“, I feel the need of sharing news. You look at me and keep smiling, “Are you about to finish?”, the abrupt change of topic is something I don’t expect. “He asked why we are here”, I continue and add “I told him the truth: thanks to the reccomendation of Fede”, you don’t listen to me checking phone. Fede, a friend, whose name in Italian means “trust”. I want to make a comment on it as well. “Zuza, c’mon, we need to go“, you insist. I look at your impatient eyesight.
I want to order another coffee. She shouldn’t be like that. She is though. I should stop wrtitng. I don’t. She should stop me. She doesn’t. She moves to the bookshelf and picks up a random book. She is bored. I am about to finish. I finish. We go out.
– I have an idea – she said.
The energy of that little boy was the permanent evidence of her youth being something to which you have to turn around in order to look at; something that has started to belong to the past and whose verbs were not conjugated in present tenses anymore.
She was specially noticing it that evening, in which she found herself missing silence. It had never happened before, at least not which such an intensity. Her life had a permanent soundtrack of rushing and monotony in which “missing” was an action for which there was simply not time.
That evening, however, it was different. She felt inside of herself a point of nostalgic when thinking about the murmur of the fridge from the kitchen, the rumor of the wind going through the glasses of the house, the needles of the living-room clock marking the pass of time, the barely audible classical music that the neighbor of the second floor played every Sunday morning. Sounds that only silence brought. Sounds that had been placed apart by the endless energy that the little eight-years-old storm had inside.
“- This is just an evidence of how old I’m getting” – she accepted to herself just one second before a thought exploded in her mind.
– I have an idea – she smiled – let’s play one game – the little boy’s eyebrows rose up, attentively – let’s see who is the best – she made a pause, emphasizing the last words to encourage his competitive soul – at remaining more time without speaking a single word.
His eyes shone immediately and she was able to enjoy the silence for the half an hour it took him to discover that he had been cheated.