Mariya

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• Bofifa

  October 16, 2023

  

  Right as you were sipping your wine, it no longer mattered that she took forever to reply, that she never asked you anything, or that your relationship was limited to a coffee every two weeks near her place, always paid for by you. Or even that she barely remembered your name. She wasn’t ugly (nor beautiful), nor boring (though she talked endlessly about herself). Still, she offered a breath of fresh air that you liked to take every now and then. With few friends and plenty of boredom, you accepted those terms because they let you escape the gray colors of the hallway in your tiny room and the crooked smile of your roommate. That’s why you accepted the private party thrown by a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend, where she told you to come because she could get you on the guest list. You stretched your sparse wardrobe to the limit to look as humble as always, but no one could take away your illusion of being your favorite character, Tony Manero, as if you were heading to the Odisea 2001 disco to shine with an amazing dance. So you took the metro from a Barcelona neighborhood to the attic of an old building in the city center, crossed that door, and found yourself in a room lit with blue and pink lights, surrounded by strangers chatting and drinking to the hazy rhythm of chill music. Your first search was for wine, and your second, for her. You found her right away, though not in the way you expected. She was wearing a black Oriental qipao with turquoise reflections that hugged her torso and neck like a glove on a pianist’s slender hand, highlighting the elegance and charms of her body, nothing like the loose jeans and hoodies she usually wore. Her hair, a mix of brown and blonde, fell wavy on both sides of her face, framing what might otherwise have looked like a too-round head. And she had ditched her usual university glasses to reveal huge blue eyes dotted with freckles on her skin. In short, she looked like you had never seen her before: beautiful. She smiled, gave you two kisses, chatted for a bit, and went off to greet others. Leaving behind, like the train of a wedding dress, a burst of scent that was the blow that knocked you flat on your back. And there you are, filling your glass again, realizing that the only purpose of your presence is her. You can’t help but watch her every time she passes and feel that you desire every particle of her skin, her hair, and even her shadow. And her smell, that smell… You still don’t know it (you never will), but she’s wearing Mariya by Oman Luxury. The potent aroma of coffee, vanilla, and caramel is boldly cut by the sharp, constant presence of rose, resulting in something sweet and gentle, yet tremendously erotic. The few times you manage to talk to her, you feel intimidated by that ancestral elixir that sends the blood in your veins racing at Formula 1 speeds. Her northern eyes, her Mediterranean body, project that strong perfume that speaks of adult secrets and the beauty of a woman. The sensation leaves you confused: caught in an intriguing halfway point between dedicating flowery verses to her or impregnating her until exhaustion before letting her devour you. At the same time, that fresh, bitter rose and caramelized coffee contain an earthy, introspective, distant nuance. It’s the scent of that train you could have taken but will never board again. All those decisions you didn’t make, all those things you should have done but didn’t. It’s the punishment for falling into the trap of sensuality. As you drink, your head gets heavier, and you realize a fact that was there from the start: everyone adores her. Every time she appears, someone approaches her. Thousands of daggers pierce you when a guy takes any excuse to hug her, grab her waist, or beg for contact that is elegantly evaded. Because one thing seems clear: she is the queen of the party, loved by all, cherished by none. Her life is a packed agenda; yours is an empty heart. You are such opposite poles that it seems a miracle you coincided in space and time. In her nature lies being everyone and no one, like that eagle flying alone high in the sky, fascinating you with its beauty, freedom, and power, but never coming close enough for you to see it better, let alone give it a cuddle. And you understand that this will eternally be the basis of your relationship, because that’s who she is, someone you can see just a few meters away but who feels like light-years distant. You decide it’s time to leave. She says goodbye with a smile that makes you the luckiest man in the world. You tell her you have to see each other again; she nods, and you go down the stairs while the door deafens the party noises, and your supreme joy from a few seconds ago is poisoned by the certainty that she to you is the soft sand slipping through your fingers and disappearing, leaving you with its magical tickle. Whereas you to her are nothing more than one of those leafless saplings in the landscape she will forget as soon as she passes them. Back home, you exit the metro and find the city dark and empty. The Torre Agbar, lit with colorful lights at night, seems a good example of how you feel. You know that soon, very soon, desire will give way to melancholy because she took something from you that you didn’t know you had inside and that is now impossible to recover. That party you went to just to pass the time has ended up becoming a briefcase full of problems. You think the story of your hero Tony Manero is actually very sad: his family life is hard, a friend commits suicide, and he fails to get the girl he loves to reciprocate. But you don’t even have the glory of the dance floor. All that awaits you is the ruined mouth of your roommate and your room smelling of loneliness. You put on your headphones and start listening to the beautiful chords of “How Deep is Your Love.” Barry Gibb’s falsetto at the climax of the song manages to scratch at your soul. How deep is your love, and what a pity there is no place to show it off.