Play for Me
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Chopin’s Ballade again. That’s the third time tonight, and I’m still making dinner. Carmencita pauses for a moment, looks at me from the piano, smiles and carries on playing. As if she needed to make sure I’m still here.
I set the plates on the table. The cutlery, something to drink. She gets up and comes towards me, her hair loose, wearing that black dress I love so much.
“Martin, come here,” she calls. I walk over and she runs her hand slowly along my neck. She kisses the corner of my mouth, not my lips. She speaks to me softly, asks me to pass her the salt, the pepper, to taste the food. I do. It’s an amusing game.
One night she was asleep and suddenly took my face in her hands and stared at me. For a second I thought she was going to kiss me, but she only said: “I love you, Martin.” And went on sleeping.
It’s a game we know by heart. I serve the plates, I sit down, I eat slowly. I listen to her while her plate goes cold.
I can’t help feeling sad when I hear that ballade. It makes me sad because I know she isn’t playing it for me. She plays it for Martin.
I cook, I treat her with love, and I wait for her.
I don’t dare to speak.
