And it was after that second kiss that he looked at her and said: I noticed right away when I looked at you that your eyes are the color of metal.
In his grandmother's backyard, he would spend his afternoons counting the dry leaves that fell from the old avocado tree and listening to Led Zeppelin. A silly boy's game, a boy who grew up there, raised by grandparents who made cornbread, went fishing on weekends, had lost children, and inherited an old Stratocaster guitar.
And the tall, thin, pale boy decided to go out that night unshaven, even with the rain predicted by the weather forecast in his eyes and the thunder heard in the distance. He went to dinner. The usual canteen.
He always ate there with his parents, then with his grandparents, and for a long time, always alone. Spaghetti with tomato sauce, simple and quick, but according to his grandmother, the dish that truly shows when a restaurant is good. Red wine from South America. The country doesn't matter, but the flavor of that land does, a land he so longed to see united. Of course, at the end, along with the bill, he would order coffee, but by then his palate had already been replaced by the empty bottle of South American wine.
And it was that night, as he walked arm in arm with autumn, that she, all chlorophyll, photosynthesized that poreless soul. Like a perfect chord, without a sound going off-key. Leaving the cafeteria, the rain was doing its job very competently. And completely soaked, he noticed the girl who could barely keep her balance, standing at that bus stop. Purple t-shirt, eyeliner running down her face.
Just like him, she too had traded the good cup of coffee for some empty bottle. The conversation, full of smiles and unrestrained laughter, was short-lived, silenced by the most polite "shut up" with lips pressed together.
That kiss lasted for many raindrops, and with their eyes closed they didn't notice that the bus, no longer expected, had already passed. So they filled the time waiting for the next one with the most tranquil wait, talking about life's music, unparalleled solos, muffled strumming (lips pressed together). And it was after this second kiss that he looked at her and said: "I noticed as soon as I looked at you that your eyes are the color of metal." She just smiled and said that was drunken talk. –"Metal has the color of life," he insisted poetically. It was then that she responded with the most beautiful poetry. The poetry of pressed lips.
On the bus seat, they exchanged names, ages, and other information that kisses and music had prevented them from revealing until that moment. She said she liked Pablo Neruda, a Chilean poet, and he said that all he knew about Chile was its wine.
She said that one day he would have to wake up without being lazy, wash his face, but not shave. And with AC/DC on the record player, put on his best suit, the most expensive tie, wear French cologne and run to the church. And that she would be there, waiting for him in a veil and bridal gown so that he would never again have an autumn heart.
