My name is Carl Moreno and I love my wife, I think.
For twenty years every single day I have loved my wife, up until Thursday. We went to Marios to celebrate our anniversary as we’ve done so often now already. Oh and Emilie and Max were also there. My wife had the pasta primavera and I, regretably, tried something new. That Bechamel sauce must have upset my stomach. I don’t know how else I could explain what happened that day and has kept me up every night, forcing me to write something down in hopes it starts making sense.
You know me better than any of my friends and even you have never heard me doubting my love to her. I am so greatful to have her in my life and could never imagine anything else. We did drink that evening, but just a bottle of wine, which was so much better than the food I have to say. We shared it between the four, no three of us, Emilie drank water of course. So I wasn’t drunk, not even buzzed. The last time that I was drunk must be years ago now, I couldn’t even tell you the exact date.
She was wearing her violet sweater, my favorite one. I remember buying it for her back when we were tarveling Sicily together. On my afternoon stroll I had passed a small tailor shop which the most wonderful fabrics hanging in the window. Inside it was dimly lit and I browsed the clothes waiting for someone to help me. Only when I rang the old bronze bell and a clear “ping” sounded through the shop did the old man enter through a curtain in the back. That second I noticed the pounding of the sewing machine had stopped. In my broken Italian I exchanged greeting with him and he smiled at me like his long lost son and, … anyways long story short from him I bought that soft and warm violet sweater and brought it back to our apartment for her.
I placed the paper bag on the diner table next to a bouque of flowers I had picked up on the way and took a shower. I must have been lost in thought, because I didn’t hear her come home. When I entered the bedroom with my hair still wet dripping in my face, she was already lying in bed. All she was wearing was that violet sweater and I’ve never seen her that peaceful, safe and beautiful before. Strains of her hair covering her closed eyes, but revealing a solemn smile. The white blanket covering her knees and one arm underneath the pillow. That image never left my mind.
She was wearing that sweater on Thursday evening at Marios. But as I was looked at it that Sicily feeling did not come up as it usually did when I saw her in that violet sweater. I didn’t think much of it at the time and went back to the conversation we were having.
Well I wasn’t much part of the conversation as I was more trying to listen and pay attention. It was one of these topics that never end and on which conversations don’t tend to lead anywhere. Rather a goal of having voiced one’s opinion or believes that actually conversing with each other. But over the years I have learned to nod, smile and look at the person talking. All while my thoughts drift far away. I have a skill since highschool, where even though I’m not paying attention I can always repeat the last spoken sentence. Repeating and following it up with an empty question along the lines of “and haw does that make you really feel?” will usually keep people off my back.
It was at one of these moments in the evening where she put her hand on my leg. I’ve always liked when she did that, if it was out of habit or she wanted me to know that she is still there. It always creates a bridge between us, that physical connection, it calms me down. That evening however it had quite the opposite effect. The calm weight of her hand turned into a heaviness that seemed to crush my leg underneath it at any moment. But at the same time holding it so tight hat it would have been impossible to escape. Looking at my leg in pain her finders seemed so light and soft making the paint even more difficult to make sense of.
In an infantile attempt searching for help, I looked up at her hoping to find a cure or at least some compassion in her eyes. At first she didn’t notice my peas, but when she did turn her head the eyes were empty. They offered no relieve, no reduction of suffering, no explanation for the what happened to me. Quite the opposite, for her soft smile that flushed across her lips fast made everything so much worse.
Oh how I had adored that smile, how her lips would get tighter and the only left part would lift up a tiny bit. Throwing those wrinkles across her cheek. You know that smiles is how it all had started those twenty years ago? We were both regulars at that Jazzbar, but for some reason we never had noticed us before. That night it was especially full and I was sitting on the floor in front of the first row. Moving left and right along the the guitar solo. As I turned arround I noticed that I was the only one swaying and what seemed like, the only one who enjoyed the music. I spotted her eyes through the crowd looking at me and as I caught hers she revealed that wonderful smile. And so, so often in those twenty years did this smile safe me and lindered my pain.
Not so that Thursday. That evening it just made the pain grow and sink deep into me. Fill me with black tar from the inside and everything started to spinn. I know that it couldn’t be because of he wine, and it wasn’t that bad Bechamel source. It was a realization that arrived to me then and there. And the thought should have suprised me but it didn’t. That’s was what really suprised me. I always expected it to fall from the skies like a Meteor and crash into me at full force, leaving behind a burning crater. But it didn’t happen like that at all. It seemed so benial in that moment, but the though felt much more like a pillow falling from the bed onto the floor, not even making a single sound.
And just like that. There over a bad pasta, and a glass of wine at Mario’s I fell out of love. Much more stumbled or slid out of love, as there was no loud bang, no turning of heads, no shaking of the ground. I fell out of love like a pillow falls of he bed, as you’re still sound asleep.
Barcelona, 25.02.2025
