Sempre e para sempre
So, I had some spare time, and I decided to write a one hitter fiction about Cristiano. Umm, here it is under the cut. :) Enjoy f-listers! And constructive criticism is very welcome! Any ideas on where I should improve is great. Enjoy reading! :)
Sempre e para sempre...
They meet every Tuesday evening in the avenida principal. Like always, she puts on a sundress, and her nicest sandals. Then, she makes her way down to the avenida, blood pounding in her ears, excited to see him.
Its always the same, the same routine, the same time, the same place.
But every time she looks at him, she feels reborn; every time, she feels renewed.
“Olá Cristiano” she says, walking down to see him.
He looks up at her, his face automatically lightening up. She sits down next to him on the concrete sidewalk, a ball bouncing up and down in his grasp. The sound of the ball echoes in the empty neighborhood, as she leans in, resting her head on his shoulder. She closes her eyes, feeling the warmth of his body spreading to her own, providing eternal comfort, and infinite security.
Then there is a silence. The ball stops bouncing, and all that is heard is them breathing. The moon beams above their heads, its shine bouncing off of their twinkling eyes.
She sighs.
“I just want to leave here, Cristiano…”
He doesn’t say anything, but she continues, “I want to leave, and start over.”
There’s that muted silence again.
“Hold my hand” he says.
“What?”
“Hold my hand” he repeats in the same monotonous tone.
She does as she is told and places her hands on his; her’s comparatively smaller than his. He looks at her. He looks into her green eyes; he looks into her heart; he looks into her soul. And then, he smiles.
“I’ll take you there” he says simply.
“What?” she questions.
“I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”
“And how exactly will that happen?” she smiles.
“I don’t know” he shrugs, looking at her again. The straps of the sundress hang loosely on her shoulders. He smiles. He had gotten it for her right after he received his first pay check from CD Nacional. He’d taken out € 30, and had gone straight to the boutique, not knowing what he was going to get but certain that he was. “I just know one thing.”
“And what’s that?” she smiles teasingly.
“That I’ll be there with you.”
There is a sense of seriousness in his voice; a sense of promise and fulfillment.
“Really?” she smiles, looking at him. His eyes twinkle. It is almost nine in the evening, but his face is still clearly visible. Stars start to appear now, illuminating the velvety sky.
“Mmhm” he says, looking straight ahead at the rusty goal post with mangled parts of ripped and tattered net clinging on it. There is something about that stare, that determination, that grit, that willpower. She ruffles his hair, playing with it.
“Did your mom get it cut again?” she asks, smiling.
“Yeah, she says I’ll look neater when scouts come to see me.”
She plays with it, running his hair through her slim fingers.
“Do you like it?” he asks, turning around, slightly raising his right eyebrow.
He doesn’t like it when people touch his hair. But she is an exception. She is different; he likes that she touches his hair.
“Of course I do.”
“Good” he smiles, relieved.
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It’s a summer night. The avenida is quiet. It is still. The wind chillier than it usually is, and the atmosphere gives a stark impression.
A boy of eleven or so sits on the rundown sidewalk, debating with himself. He clenches his teeth, and curses at the necessity to make choices even at the tender age of eleven. Then he stops. He hears the clocking of slippers against the cement of the avenida, and turns around.
“Olá” she smiles.
She’s wearing that dress again. The dress that he had bought her.
It feels as if the siltering rays of the sun shines directly at him. Older people---much older than Cristiano----hustle and bustle about, talking in their cell phones in rapid Portuguese, dodging the oncoming traffic.
Then he enters a tiny boutique just off of the avenida, taking in the chilly air hummed by the air conditioner.
“What are you looking for, little boy?” says the lady who is folding the sweaters, setting them in a neat and orderly pile.
“A dress” he replies timidly, folding the paper money crumpled in his hands; beads of sweat almost dampening the fragile piece of folded currency.
“For whom?”
“A friend” he says, stepping forward.
The woman stops folding the sweater, and smiles. She is much taller than him, and he is kind of intimidated by her. “Now, this friend of yours. Is she just a friend?” she winks.
“No,” he smiles. “She’s special.”
He had told her to wear it again yesterday. He wanted to see her wear it before he left.
He gets up, letting the ball free of his grasp.
He still doesn’t say anything. He can’t. It is impossible for him to say anything. He keeps on smiling.
They both sit down. He puts his arms around her, as she fits perfectly in his little nook. He hears her sigh. It is like a deep sigh of relief. A sigh that shows how relieved she is to be with him. But then a wave of displeasuring guilt sweeps over him.
“Ana?” he utters.
She looks up at him. She smiles. She doesn’t know anything yet, and he doesn’t want to let her know anything. “Yes Cristiano?”
He is unable to think, to process anything. He just smiles again, that same wave of guilt sweeping over him like déjà vu. Then he kisses her. He feels her softness against his, but he feels her part away when her kiss traces into a smile.
“Are you sure you’re all right, Cristiano?” she asks him again.
“I’m going to Lisbon” he states bluntly.
She doesn’t say anything. She’s shocked.
“Ana?”
“I’m really happy for you, Cristiano. You deserve it. You’ll be great there” she says in a rapid speed. She feels as if the wind has been knocked out of her, as if the summer night just turned icy and cold, making goosebumps rise all over her frail body.
She knows this would have happened some time sooner or later. She knows he would have left her. She knows he would have had to leave her someday. But she wasn’t ready for that day to be today.
“When do you leave?” she manages to choke out.
Lisbon was big, not like Madeira at all. It was in the mainland. It was too far away.
“Thursday” he replies quietly. He doesn’t look her in the eye. He can’t. He doesn’t want to see her heart break in front of him.
“Oh..” she croaks. She is thankful that he isn’t looking at her. She doesn’t want to let him see her like this. Her eyes well up, filling to the brim with crystal clear tears. He knows she’s crying. In fact, he is too.
He wants to go to Lisbon. He has to go to Lisbon. Its his dream. If he leaves, he can support his family.
He looks up, his vision now slightly blurry. He closes his eyes, hearing her sob quietly.
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As I look back on all that's happened…growing up, growing together, changing you, changing me -- there were times when we dreamed together, when we laughed and cried together. As I look back on those days, I realize how much I truly miss you and how much I truly love you. So Cristiano, it is with all my heart that I send you my love, hoping that you'll always carry my smile with you, for all we have meant to each other and for whatever the future may hold.
Seu amor,
Ana
It is Tuesday night.
Cristiano reads the faded writings on the crumpled notebook paper in the darkest hour of the night. Each breath heaves an added weight of turmoil and nostalgia. His teammate snores loudly just underneath him, sprawled on the bottom bunk, a pool of sticky drool on the center of his pillow.
Cristiano shifts, laying sideways, facing the window.
Everything is different here. The people. The language. The city. Everything except for football. But even that’s a little different. Everyone is bigger than him. They weigh ten twenty kilos heavier than he does. He’s just a scrawny kid from a far away island with a thick native tongue.
He feels as if nobody understands him.
But he knows that this is what he must do. This is what he must surpass to be great, to be like Maradonna, to be like Pele, to be the greatest that ever lived.
Still he misses home. Still he thinks of Ana. Still he misses her with every beat of his broken heart.
He misses her when something really good happens, because he knows she’s the only one he wants to share it with. He misses her when something is troubling him, because he knows she’s the only one who understands him so well. He misses her when he laughs and cries, because he knows that she’s the one who will make his laughter grow and his tears disappear.
It is true, he misses her all the time, but he misses her the most on nights like tonight, when he lies awake, thinking of all the wonderful times they’ve spent with one another, for those were the best moments of his life.
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“I heard you came back home,” she says, walking down the same steps she’d walked down every Tuesday for sixteen years.
The night is still. The air is humid and the sky is full of brilliant stars.
He doesn’t say anything.
“Why didn’t you come see me, Cristiano?” she spits out. He’s changed now. He’s grown. A lot. His hair is gelled perfectly in place, not a strand off. His smile isn’t crooked anymore. He isn’t the same scrawny kid anymore; he’s a grown man. “Why didn’t you come see me?”
She just stands there, unable to say anything more. She is hurt. It hurts her to see him. Oh how she had tried to forget his painfully beautiful face; how she had tried to erase the memories that were etched in her heart forever.
“I wanted to wait” he smiles.
It is so simple for him.
“What?”
“What night is it?” he asks.
“You didn’t forget?”
“I could never forget this, Ana. You. Me. Us. Never.”
It is so simple for him: to say the right thing; to look at her the right way; to make the pain fade away.
“Why?”
“Porque sempre foste tu. It was always you, querida. Always.”
She is wrong. He hasn’t changed. He’s still the same; the same boy she had hopelessly fallen in love with before she even knew what love was. He is still that same boy with that same mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
But most of all, he is still that same boy who loves her with all of his heart.
“I love you, mi amor. I love you” he whispers in the numbing silence of the summer night.
And so, in the still night, in the empty and lifeless avenida, two lovers stand, sempre e para sempre.
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