We told ourselves that we will be millionaires when we grow up, that we will buy a gray French bulldog with black stripes and glossy eyes, and get him a maid in case he forgets to poop where he should. We will call him ‘Yunior,’ and we will find him a cat friend with blue eyes. This one we’ll name ‘Alma.’ She will have soft, white fur, and she will hangout in our bookshelves where we will keep your favorite book, Junot Diaz’ “This Is How You Lose Her.”
We will have a beautiful couch, but an even beautiful bed. You told me we should get the best one, because that may cure my “psychological insomnia.” You like to send me links on “How To Sleep In Less Than 15 Minutes” and “What To Avoid Before Sleeping,” and you buy me organic balms to help me sleep. We’re the total opposite. You, no matter where and when, can sleep in less than ten minutes. During sleepovers, I can wrap my legs around yours and you will be snoring still. I will look at your face, and then at the ceiling, and I will eventually wake you up. You will kiss my chin, half-awake, and I will close my eyes. And that little play will go on until I finally fall asleep.
One night you asked me if I prefer buying a condominium or a house. You asked me what our library will look like, and if books will be conjugal once we move in. You asked me if I like to have a big kitchen, even though I don’t cook. I said we can have sex in the kitchen and everywhere around the house and our talks of dreams turned into lust and into love and into more elaborate dreams after.
And then we started saving. From loose change, to twenty-peso bills, to thousands, to opening a bank account, until we had enough. The money piled up, and we’re waiting for the interest to grow. It did, but poorly. Time is running and times have changed and I haven’t seen you in two years but it’s alright. You said to me, sometimes, in order to grow we need to be apart. And so we did.
I did not wait for you in NAIA. Not because I didn’t want to, but because you didn’t tell me you were finally coming home. You went to my house, and you said you need the money for something more important. And I gave it to you, because you said it’s what you need. But I asked you, how about what we need? And you said nothing. And I said nothing. And then you left. And it was silent.
And I realize, it’s when your sentences become short that it will dawn on you that you’re actually writing a sad story, and that dreams don’t always turn to reality. At least not this one.