Entr'Acte
Author's Note: Now there's actually an update to that story. This intermezzo and the next chapter convey, once again, the truth. With a few alterations, though. I'm planning to write a third chapter from Yves's POV; this third chapter would be entirely ficticious. As you probably remember from my note on the first chapter, I had a little problem with a guy on New Year's Eve. The first chapter is practically a word-for-word account of what happened. Now in this second chapter, I'll probably include some things that actually did NOT happen to me, but the most part of it will be authentic as well.
Disclaimer: I still haven't bought TLG; shame on me... I could put in back on air! "Tragedia" isn't mine, either; please note that this song belongs to Marc Anthony, or whoever composed it or did the Spanish translation. I chose the Spanish version because it's a little different from the English and just fits better into the story. I just hope that I understood the lyrics correctly... Whatever, I'll include an English translation for you, just in case.
Almost four months have passed since that fateful night at the club, and I still haven't heard from Yves. I'm starting to believe that the kiss - the kisses - really didn't mean that much to her. Maybe she was just too drunk... Maybe it was, after all, a sort of closure... Well, to be honest, I could have put a little more effort in trying to reach her. I tried to call her about a week after the, uhm, incident and only got her answering machine - as usual. Then I sent her an SMS, but I have no idea if the cell phone number I have is still correct.
Apart from that, life goes on. The anniversary of the guys' death is approaching, and I'm planning to go to Arlington and tell them about it. But then again, I reckon they already know. I'm convinced that this circus Yves and I are performing is cracking them up, up there, wherever they are now.
Only I can't laugh. I'm the broken-hearted clown left behind now that the traveling show has moved on. I'm the clown whom no one takes seriously. Not Yves, not this Jake guy who accompanied her that night; heck, not even I do. I fucked up. I just don't know how.
I've somehow managed to survive. Meanwhile I'm living in Chicago, by the way, and Chicago provides numerous possibilities to distract yourself from grief, confusion, heartbreak, or whatever you're suffering from. Over the past four months, I must have visited every single bar and club in the city, or at least I feel as if I had. I have enough time. I have a job as a football coach, training eleven-year-old kids how to run each other over. They find my name very amusing, and sometimes they call me "Coach 007". I don't make a fortune, but it's just about enough to pay the rent for my little one-room apartment and buy the essential things you need to survive. Including the beers in the evening. But of course it doesn't help me one bit to forget Yves. She is still on my mind, and if I want to relive that scene between us, all I have to do is close my eyes and it's there, as vividly and clearly as if it was three minutes ago.
In the first few nights afterwards I used to dream about Yves. I used to dream all sorts of things - Yves calling me and saying she'd like to see me; Yves bumping into me on the street and instantly throwing her arms around me; Yves and me in a restaurant with candles on the tables and a violonist playing only for us; Yves kissing me tenderly and saying how much she loved me... I used to curse my alarm clock waking me brutally from those dreams and bringing me back to reality and the harsh truth: Yves doesn't care for me. She doesn't love me; she doesn't care if I'm happy. She would have called me if things were different, wouldn't she? She would have done something. Anything.
But she hasn't reacted neither to my SMS nor to the message I left on her answering machine. And I don't know how long I can go on pretending; don't know when I'll have to face the truth and accept it completely. All I know is that I'm a mess. Every morning I wake up with that vague hope in me that today she's going to call me, and every night I go to bed with a feeling of disappointment that never fades entirely. Every morning there remains a little bit more of it than the morning before. The day will come when this disappointment has won over the hope. But up until then, I'm going to keep on hoping.
And on dreaming.
Since I have the feeling that soon it will be all that's left of her.
Ella no me ama, qué dolor
No le interesa que yo sea feliz
Una tragedia, ese es ti amor
Una tragedia del principio al fin
(TRANSLATION:
She doesn't love me, oh this pain
She doesn't care if I'm happy
A tragedy, that's what your love is
A tragedy from the beginning to the end)
End Note: As I said before, I thought that the Spanish lyrics just fit better into the story. The English goes along the lines of, "She doesn't love me; it doesn't mean that it's a tragedy" or something, which conveys a completely different meaning!
Whatever. Keep a look out for the upcoming chapter two when this "soap" continues (no kidding, I really feel as if I'm in a soap opera!)