Carlos Ortega reached for the upper horizontal shelf which served as a cup holder for wine and wineglasses alike. Clinging to the wooden shelf, he lifted himself and deliberately pointed his finger to each wineskin, where the brands and the years were imprinted. After some moments during which he seemed to wait, carefully listening to the light of great decision in his mind, then he soon picked one bottle and with bare fingers, slid down with the bottle and two wineglasses on his hands.
“So how long are you going to keep this up, now that you’ve found out where she is?”
The sound of the liquid beat through the wine, like the muffling flutters of a murmurous stream. The young man who sat on the other side of the table stared intricately at the red wine, as though he was in a meditative wonderment. He remained unmoved, although he had already heard the voice of Carlos. There was a sudden rush of an unwanted anxiety in him. He gave no sign that he was, in any way, glad, but continued rather, to sit unmoving in the stillness.
“The past would mean nothing,” Carlos said. “if you have found a way to move on. And you have. Must you wear yourself out because you are yet reminded of all the pain you’ve felt before?” He felt a pang inside him, because what he said didn’t make Rafael Guerrero feel any better. “You know, it’s been two years, I suppose, since she became a part of your life. You’ve succeeded in trying to forget her, surely, but now must you reminisce on past events?”
“I can’t help it,” he said softly, his fists tightly clenched. “I can’t help but face the fact that I’m still in love with her.”
Abruptly, Carlos placed the wine-filled glass in front of Rafael so as to cheer him up in vain. “You know very well that Natalia is still in love with you also. You know that, right?”
Rafael Guerrero said nothing.
“You know that Rafael, right?” Carlos repeated, muffling in placidity.
“Yes, I know,” Rafael stated after a very long, meditative pause. His voice was inevitable, and certainly weak because of plain anxiety.
“Then do you not care of what she feels?” he said, feeling quite relieved. “You cannot blame her if she marries that old man instead. She has been nothing but kind to you.”
“But can you blame me?” his voice was sharp, and unconsciously, he started drinking from the red wine that was prepared before him. The sound of the liquid dangling in his throat called in a certain amount of comfort.
Carlos tried to decipher Rafael’s thoughts. He was so sure that those dark brown eyes of his were strange in terms of expressions, and Carlos could not bear to read them. He felt brokenness and anxiety caged in them, and forthwith he knew there was a certain fill of compassion beating in his own heart. Carlos turned to the cavern for the windows that have been closed and the cold porcelain china stacked on a furniture leaning against the wall. It was dark out, and the sky was tumultuously black. Hardly a single star could be made out, for it was very clear to him that it would soon begin to rain.
“It appears that I can,” he retorted with a good-natured contempt, running his bare fingers through the smooth edge of the narra table. “It is not my will to decide for you, but rather, to help you in the process.”
Rafael looked down. “I do not know what to think, or what to feel. But what I do know is that I –” he paused, appalled by the passion imprinted on his voice. He cleared his throat. “The past means everything to me.”
“Rafael,” slowly, indifferently, “do tell me. What is your decision? One is due her, surely.”
“I don’t know,” he had reverted to his earlier tones of uneasiness – detached from personality, inflexible and weak, suggesting potentialities of queer sadness, and perhaps even indecisiveness. “I don’t know how long this will last,” he continued.
