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Meche had grown to become a person of a certain composure. Things took place inside her head and heart, but she did not let people take a peek, preferring to show them only the smallest ripples of herself.
“Why can’t music be magic? Aren’t spells just words you repeat? And what are songs? Lyrics that play over and over again. The words are like a formula.”
Letters are not letters in equations. They stand for numbers and if you balance them right, you’ll find the right number. What if it was the same for music? Songs stand for something, don’t they? They have a symbolic value. So if you were to somehow balance them...
the clatter of heels announced the presence of his wife. She turned on the lights and glanced at him. She didn’t say anything. Her heels just moved away, towards the bedroom, with a soft sort of indifference which mirrored his own.
the piles of old LPs her father had accumulated. They were sitting on shelves, but also spilled onto the floor, peeking from beneath the sofas, drowning the side table, resting upon the battered TV set.
They folded and kept their dreams in the same drawer, spun fantasies side by side, lived in the easy harmony of youth which did not know the need for tall walls and sturdy defenses.
lofty because they didn’t have to scramble for a few pesos, stretch their hands like urchins,
Miguel Bosé. Nena,
Maybe he could have his ocean and the sound of the waves heavy in his ears as he went to sleep.
Time slowed down. The seconds crawled, lazily, and she looked at Sebastian and Sebastian looked at her for what was maybe two, three months. A whole season passed in his gaze and her heart—which she knew should beat at 60-100 per minute, knowledge gleaned from her science textbook—beat maybe once or twice.
You don’t get to rewind your life like a tape and splice it back together, pretending it never knotted and tore, when it did and you know it did.
Magic happened like that for them: in feelings and hunches and surprise insights which came in the middle of the night.
LOVE DIES IN different ways. For most, it is a slow, agonizing death. Meche, however, cut her love the same way the executioner might chop a head: with a single, accurate swing.
