The train of the one
We publish another microrrelato. In this occasion it belongs to Maria Ríos (pseudonym) and it takes for title The train of the one.
The train of the one
I come from the way back of the illusion and it was not prepared. When I went out of the office, I was raining of pertinacious form and I took the alone umbrella thinking that it might have forgotten her. I was wanting to get wet, of getting soaked, of that the rain was soaking through me and the life, of feeling, of feeling again.
Its call was something prodigious, unexpected, an oasis in the desert, as the water saw falling down after many days of the same monotonous sky. Another opportunity was giving to me, good, not exactly, he was doubting, thinking about the possibility that … he was confessing to Me that this feeling had taken her for surprise, which was raising the replanteárserlo question … was Listening to its beautiful, beautiful voice as the handsomeness of its person, of its body, of its soul, and it seemed to me to listen to an angel or another divine being. Only the sound of its words me was sounding better than the ninth Beethoven symphony. It was sincere, she always tells the truth, that's why its words know so well, be sweet or bitter. It has taken at least a determination, and it was to call. He did not know if to recapture the train of our relation … and for it at a few hours would decide what it was going to do, he still did not know it and I believe it. If he was deciding to return, it would take the outskirts that it was coming at one o'clock to the platform number one, place in which in so much occasions there was I gone to meet her. If it was not going in this train, that would mean that he had decided on the definitive separation. In this case there would be more called not even any other type of communication, each one would pull from his part.
On having gone out of the buffet, in spite of the rain that was putting off others, I saw rainbow, children splashing about in the puddles, humid and untidy hairs … He was Dancing giving jumping and returns on itself, I ran, flew up to the outskirts station. It did not see the hour from which the one was coming. To see again its skin, the expression of its eyes, its delicate hands … In a dilapidated bank I took delight with its memory from twelve o'clock. I had gone away with enough urgency, time attic wanted to come. The possibility that he had excused me, that had been moved to pity of me, of which he had reconsidered the pros of our union, was giving me wings and was doing to me to feel that levitaba on my seat. The minutes were happening and I was getting impatient. The breast was running away me and I was worrying, worrying … and not so much because it was not coming … but because its pardon seemed impossible, unjust to me, so much damage had done to him that it was not deserving to be again with her. The fixed hour came. The train was coming I am necessary to its destination, and I felt fear, a lot of fear. And not from that it was not coming, but from that it was coming. I had behaved like a traitor and she was not deserving that although it was a question of me. I saw bending all the passengers in its daily routine and she did not come. I breathed, better, said to myself, better for her. For me it is like stopping seeing the sun, on this rainy, dark, sad and solitary day. This way it must be.
Ton, ton, ton …
Filed file: General
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