Blinded by the haze of their discussion, She and He unravel infinite branches to contradict each other, refute one another, and intersperse one or two silences that seem conciliatory. The matter started moving, but the intensity of both intentions halted the steps and the walk turned into a podium before an improvised semicircle of spectators who not only lent their ears to the debate, but soon showed open inclinations and changing preferences without any of the witnesses daring to intervene or interrupt the heated conversation between She and He.
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From a shared anecdote they moved to a tangle about tariffs and who pays or does not pay indirect taxes; then, the unconditional defense of a prominent Mexican politician just for being a woman and the troubled and already very ruined refuge around the world of drug trafficking… but suddenly, one of the two (I think She) praised the color blue and what had been built as diatribe and disturbance deliciously softened into an aesthetic conversation about the blue of the skies and the different blues of the sea. His voice broke as soon as he evoked the blue of the eyes that just minutes before seemed to be injected with yellow bile and She — lapis lazuli in retina — remembered some old cufflinks on a linen shirt.
Blue the rhapsody that both qualified as the musical background to their dialogue derived from discussion: the synchronized noise of metals as if they were cars passing by swiftly, the violins of their respective voices and that shared gaze intertwining an indescribable harmony as the trail of the oboe or clarinet rises in the first comment that occurred to She as soon as they went out to walk the city streets where all the sad news of the world seemed to gather, the figures of hunger, the horror of horrors. Soft rhapsody that allows clarifying that in reality She and He do not exist.
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I have drawn them under their shared cloud to simulate the constant dialogue between Two as if they were One, as if today I do not want to write about the misfortunes that upset my liver and I take refuge in the already very old pact of concocting prose as a placebo. Words for an imaginary pantomime in the middle of any city where two characters build above their heads a dear cloud, enviable mist, to evade any curtain.
