Y con esta verdad
Raúl Gonzalez/Fernando Morientes, R. I say nothing as you stand outside my door.
I say nothing as you stand at my door.
The rain is pouring down, unusual for this time of year, and you are dripping onto my welcome mat.
Wordlessly, I leave the front door open for you and make my way back inside to my lukewarm coffee and newspaper.
When you join me in my kitchen, I am looking out onto my backyard, where my children’s toys are abandoned in the storm.
There is a warm towel waiting for you on a chair, and I indicate it with a nod of my head, turning back to the window.
I can feel you waiting for me to do something, but I don’t.
You collapse on the chair, giving in first. “Where are Mamen and the boys?”
“Her aunt isn’t doing too well so they’re visiting.” But I am sure you know because I heard her speaking to your wife the other week.
“Why are you here?” I ask, before you have a chance to say anything more.
You don’t respond until I peel my eyes away from the view.
You shrug. A signature move of yours, usually accompanied by a brief laugh, reminiscent to a kid caught with their hand in the candy jar.
Except lately I only ever see that shrug on post-match interviews on the television, as you decline to comment on the decision to leave us out of national team call-ups.
I busy myself with making you coffee and throwing out what’s left of mine. “You’re getting water everywhere.”
There’s a scraping sound of chair legs against the floor and when I turn around, you’ve disappeared.
It only comes to me then that since you moved back we’ve only seen each other a handful of times.
The thought alone hits me hard enough that I mess up your coffee and have to start over again.
“I told you not to read those newspapers, they’ll drive you mad.” I turn to see you walking barefoot, in wearing one of my old shirts and sweats, fingering Marca on the table.
I forget you know your way round here almost as much as your own home and it unnerves me.
“Lucky for you, you don’t have to stick around to watch me go mad.”
I almost want to take it back because the look on your face is devastating. Almost.
“That’s not fair,” you respond, quietly. You’re right but we both know I won’t acknowledge it.
“That coffee’s for you,” I say, stiffly.
You frown. “Are you going to look at me?”
I cross my arms, pointedly looking at you. “Are you going to tell me why you came?”
You shrug again. “Just wanted to see how you were.”
You start to sip my coffee as you sift through my paper, in my kitchen, in my clothes, like three years had not passed.
It makes me feel strangely uncomfortable and I feel a rush of anger run through me.
“They have phones for that, you know,” I sit across from you, “you didn’t have to drive four hours to find out.”
“But I wanted to,” you say, from behind the broadsheets.
I curse you in my head. “I called you. A month ago. Victoria said you would get back to me. You never did.”
You drop the newspaper and rub your face, “I know. It was…I was-”
“-Busy? Preoccupied?” I interrupt, and my voice is bitterer than I want it to sound, “I understand.”
I wait till your body relaxes before I make it a little more difficult for you, “We both have new things…New team-mates.”
You look up, startled, “It’s not what you think.”
I ignore you, continuing, “It’s not my business what you do in Valencia or with whom.”
Your face colours and I relish it.
Then I deliver the final blow.
“But, then again, you’ve always had a thing for number sevens.”
You reel back, knocking the coffee mug over.
“You’re completely out of line.”
“Really?” I ask, challenging. “Listen, I don’t care who you’re fucking over there. I just want to know why you’re here out of the blue…as if nothing has changed.”
We both shrink back. I wasn’t expecting to say that and by the look on your face, I know you weren’t either. You look defeated and I feel incredibly tired.
You walk slowly toward me. I look around my kitchen, at the table with the coffee spill cutting a path, out the window; everywhere but at you.
“I don’t want us to push each other away the way we are.”
You’re an arms length away.
“What’s the point of punishing each other for something we don’t even know?”
You place your hands on either side of my head.
Your eyes are searching.
I know how this ends and I’m not ready for you.
I shove you away. “You can’t come here expecting things to be the same.”
You won’t let go. You hold on firmly, painfully.
You brush a thumb against my lip. “I’m not.”
Then your lips cover mine and my body, my lips automatically open to you. Opening to you and betraying me.
You deepen our kiss, your hands begin roaming across my body and it responds. My hand tangles in your hair, clutching at your arm.
You grind yourself into me.
“Nobody can control everything,” you whisper, hot against my ear.
You push me against the table, and that’s all I need.
Our hands fumble clumsily at shirt buttons and hurriedly push trousers down and to the side, as we wrestle to gain the upper hand.
Finally, we are bare and aroused and your hand reaches down between us, taking me in your hand and I thrust involuntarily, holding my breath.
You kneel before me and take me deeply.
I clench and unclench my fists tightly and the noises I emit do not befit a captain but I’m far from caring.
Looking down, my cock in your mouth, your head bobbing, your eyes never leaving my face, the pressure grows from my stomach outwards.
“Let go,” you murmur. The words vibrate along my length and I come, groaning, into your mouth.
My hands slip but you hold me as I somehow regain my footing.
My eyes are still focusing when you turn me around, but when I feel you slip a finger in me, preparing me, I swear loudly and come back to earth, my body still hypersensitive.
Your grip on my arms tightens as you enter me and I dig my fingers into the back of your neck.
Your hand snakes forward, touching me and I find myself aroused again.
I push back against you, the only encouragement you need.
I drop my head back onto your chest as the burn builds slowly to your thrusts. My hands clutch the table and then in your hair.
You whisper nonsense to my back, thrusting into me. I arch backwards, meeting you halfway.
It seems like hours, or it could have been mere minutes, when we both come; I, over our hands, you, with a long, guttural, ‘fuck’, bruising my shoulder with your teeth.
We collapse to the floor in a tangle of sweat and limbs. It takes awhile to catch our breaths, gather our strength back; we’re not as young as we think we are.
You look at me, smirking, face flushed and satisfied, and ask, “You hungry?”
And it is exactly like all the times before.
Later, much later, you stand once again by my door, about to leave me once again. You’re back in your own clothes, dry now, and absentmindedly looking for your keys.
I know that, in that moment, in your head you’re already gone.
But I still smell like you and when you say, “I’ll call soon,” I believe you.
I say nothing as you stand at my door.
The rain is pouring down, unusual for this time of year, and you are dripping onto my welcome mat.
Wordlessly, I leave the front door open for you and make my way back inside to my lukewarm coffee and newspaper.
When you join me in my kitchen, I am looking out onto my backyard, where my children’s toys are abandoned in the storm.
There is a warm towel waiting for you on a chair, and I indicate it with a nod of my head, turning back to the window.
I can feel you waiting for me to do something, but I don’t.
You collapse on the chair, giving in first. “Where are Mamen and the boys?”
“Her aunt isn’t doing too well so they’re visiting.” But I am sure you know because I heard her speaking to your wife the other week.
“Why are you here?” I ask, before you have a chance to say anything more.
You don’t respond until I peel my eyes away from the view.
You shrug. A signature move of yours, usually accompanied by a brief laugh, reminiscent to a kid caught with their hand in the candy jar.
Except lately I only ever see that shrug on post-match interviews on the television, as you decline to comment on the decision to leave us out of national team call-ups.
I busy myself with making you coffee and throwing out what’s left of mine. “You’re getting water everywhere.”
There’s a scraping sound of chair legs against the floor and when I turn around, you’ve disappeared.
It only comes to me then that since you moved back we’ve only seen each other a handful of times.
The thought alone hits me hard enough that I mess up your coffee and have to start over again.
“I told you not to read those newspapers, they’ll drive you mad.” I turn to see you walking barefoot, in wearing one of my old shirts and sweats, fingering Marca on the table.
I forget you know your way round here almost as much as your own home and it unnerves me.
“Lucky for you, you don’t have to stick around to watch me go mad.”
I almost want to take it back because the look on your face is devastating. Almost.
“That’s not fair,” you respond, quietly. You’re right but we both know I won’t acknowledge it.
“That coffee’s for you,” I say, stiffly.
You frown. “Are you going to look at me?”
I cross my arms, pointedly looking at you. “Are you going to tell me why you came?”
You shrug again. “Just wanted to see how you were.”
You start to sip my coffee as you sift through my paper, in my kitchen, in my clothes, like three years had not passed.
It makes me feel strangely uncomfortable and I feel a rush of anger run through me.
“They have phones for that, you know,” I sit across from you, “you didn’t have to drive four hours to find out.”
“But I wanted to,” you say, from behind the broadsheets.
I curse you in my head. “I called you. A month ago. Victoria said you would get back to me. You never did.”
You drop the newspaper and rub your face, “I know. It was…I was-”
“-Busy? Preoccupied?” I interrupt, and my voice is bitterer than I want it to sound, “I understand.”
I wait till your body relaxes before I make it a little more difficult for you, “We both have new things…New team-mates.”
You look up, startled, “It’s not what you think.”
I ignore you, continuing, “It’s not my business what you do in Valencia or with whom.”
Your face colours and I relish it.
Then I deliver the final blow.
“But, then again, you’ve always had a thing for number sevens.”
You reel back, knocking the coffee mug over.
“You’re completely out of line.”
“Really?” I ask, challenging. “Listen, I don’t care who you’re fucking over there. I just want to know why you’re here out of the blue…as if nothing has changed.”
We both shrink back. I wasn’t expecting to say that and by the look on your face, I know you weren’t either. You look defeated and I feel incredibly tired.
You walk slowly toward me. I look around my kitchen, at the table with the coffee spill cutting a path, out the window; everywhere but at you.
“I don’t want us to push each other away the way we are.”
You’re an arms length away.
“What’s the point of punishing each other for something we don’t even know?”
You place your hands on either side of my head.
Your eyes are searching.
I know how this ends and I’m not ready for you.
I shove you away. “You can’t come here expecting things to be the same.”
You won’t let go. You hold on firmly, painfully.
You brush a thumb against my lip. “I’m not.”
Then your lips cover mine and my body, my lips automatically open to you. Opening to you and betraying me.
You deepen our kiss, your hands begin roaming across my body and it responds. My hand tangles in your hair, clutching at your arm.
You grind yourself into me.
“Nobody can control everything,” you whisper, hot against my ear.
You push me against the table, and that’s all I need.
Our hands fumble clumsily at shirt buttons and hurriedly push trousers down and to the side, as we wrestle to gain the upper hand.
Finally, we are bare and aroused and your hand reaches down between us, taking me in your hand and I thrust involuntarily, holding my breath.
You kneel before me and take me deeply.
I clench and unclench my fists tightly and the noises I emit do not befit a captain but I’m far from caring.
Looking down, my cock in your mouth, your head bobbing, your eyes never leaving my face, the pressure grows from my stomach outwards.
“Let go,” you murmur. The words vibrate along my length and I come, groaning, into your mouth.
My hands slip but you hold me as I somehow regain my footing.
My eyes are still focusing when you turn me around, but when I feel you slip a finger in me, preparing me, I swear loudly and come back to earth, my body still hypersensitive.
Your grip on my arms tightens as you enter me and I dig my fingers into the back of your neck.
Your hand snakes forward, touching me and I find myself aroused again.
I push back against you, the only encouragement you need.
I drop my head back onto your chest as the burn builds slowly to your thrusts. My hands clutch the table and then in your hair.
You whisper nonsense to my back, thrusting into me. I arch backwards, meeting you halfway.
It seems like hours, or it could have been mere minutes, when we both come; I, over our hands, you, with a long, guttural, ‘fuck’, bruising my shoulder with your teeth.
We collapse to the floor in a tangle of sweat and limbs. It takes awhile to catch our breaths, gather our strength back; we’re not as young as we think we are.
You look at me, smirking, face flushed and satisfied, and ask, “You hungry?”
And it is exactly like all the times before.
Later, much later, you stand once again by my door, about to leave me once again. You’re back in your own clothes, dry now, and absentmindedly looking for your keys.
I know that, in that moment, in your head you’re already gone.
But I still smell like you and when you say, “I’ll call soon,” I believe you.