42- Sentimental fever, saturday at night
Ania was the first girlfriend Mel had had in a long time, and she was the first one he couldn't manage to control. At least now he knew that he had to leave on an emotional level rather than on logic, since Anastasia was very impulsive when it came to her emotions. No ruining it with other girls, no promising him with words, he had to prove it with actions. There was something about those letters... the way he would corner himself in the corner of the room and sit down to write letters to Paola every night that annoyed her enormously. The idea of knowing Ania writing instead of going to Malaga with her made her groan. She wouldn't go out with Maria or her friends, she would stay up writing all night. She would take advantage of the fact that she would be out. The car squeaked on the wet asphalt. It would be better if she stopped at the next gas station to buy cigarettes and drove fast until she entered the next intersection towards Malaga.
Mel thought again about Anastasia's smile, the way her tears shone. She had never seen anything like it, nor the shine on her lips every time she kissed her, they turned silver and sometimes without makeup, they lit up in flashes as if her mouth were a pyrite stone shining under the sun. That frosted lipstick never fell off, not even when they kissed passionately. It was something special, different from makeup, it seemed to radiate from her skin. Sometimes it seemed like her lips shone without warning, that lipstick full of frost always shone. And her body, when Ania was completely calm, seemed to acquire a certain transparency, almost crystallized when she caressed her. She had never seen a more beautiful skin than Anastasia's. Melisa unconsciously brought her hands to her mouth. Finally she stopped in the parking lot of a bar, got out of the truck and walked towards the bar that kept the lights on and had a coke machine at the entrance. Two trucks and a motorcycle parked in front of her and the noise coming from inside let her know that she would find cigarettes as well as reserve alcohol. The atmosphere was heavy with smoke and the sound of the radio came from inside all the way to the entrance to the supply room. Melisa opened the door and entered, walking towards the bar with her gaze fixed on the radio, suspended next to a painting of Marilyn Monroe, and a long mirror, on the wall in front of the bar.
This Saturday you have a date with Paola Ferrer at La Sala, singer-songwriter and professor of the Seville Symphony Orchestra. With this concert Ferrer ends the tour of the Seville Symphony Orchestra. The Venezuelan artist shows us her latest work. As a token of gratitude, with your ticket she will be signing her latest album, with some pretty cool interpretations. Paola Ferrer's music exudes energy and romanticism. You can't miss it! Now we leave you with the latest from Whisky Caravan... And speaking of Whisky Caravan... they will be performing tonight in Malaga. In a tribute to the Heroes of Silence, friends of Malaga, you can't miss it! Chica Carmín, enjoy it... It's 8:15 p.m. on AIR Radio.
Now that you're leaving, don't come back...
I won't stop you...
I promise... \[1\]
\- Is everything ready? - The producer of La Sala asked Paola. The lights illuminated the dressing room, located diagonally behind a small stage, now with the red curtains drawn, the dressing room was dimly lit. The dressing room was decorated with a front mirror, and light bulbs around it, suspended on the wall. From the ceiling fell a crystal lamp in the shape of flowers that shone under a light yellow light. Paola had smoky, dark makeup in contrast to her dark skin color, her skin shone as if she were wearing highlighter all over her body. A bronze color covered the tips of her hair and gave the sensation of releasing bronze-colored frost when she moved her head. Her brown hair was straightened and loose, she wore tight black pants that highlighted her hips, her abs were marked under a white satin blouse, decorated with thin chains that bordered her shoulders and neck.
\- Is it time yet? - Paola asked, she approached cautiously and looked through the curtains. The place was full and the tables were full. It was a shame that her parents were not going to see her in her last performance. But it was better this way, it would have made her uncomfortable to recognize the palpable discomfort of both in that environment of artists and young bohemians.
\- No, there are still two songs before you go on stage - the producer answered. The producer was wearing reading glasses and a folder full of papers.
\- Okay, I'll drink water and warm up my vocal cords - Paola assured. She smiled kindly. His small, white teeth broke into a wide smile. The presenter smiled back.She looked at her with glee and disappeared behind the curtains. Paola warmed up her voice with the A minor scale, singing octaves in crescendo. The tension increased in her when the pianist played the last two songs of her repertoire, the place fell silent and the backlights went out.
She took a drink of beer on the table. She tilted it until she drank the whole thing, hoping that this drink would be enough to calm her nerves. Paola took her guitar, perfectly tuned under the doorway. The silence of the audience indicated to her that they were ready to receive her. It was a small show with some musicians from La Orquesta, everything would be fine. The curtains opened. She observed her friends in the first row. She sat in front of the microphone, her straightened hair covering part of her face as she leaned delicately over her instrument and hid her nerves under her eyelashes, which shone brightly, illuminating her cheekbones. They always tickled her eyelids and sparkled when she was nervous. Luckily, the audience would think it was some frosted mask or exuberant makeup. She looked at the guitar pick she had between her fingers that night just a second before she started playing the instrument. She thought about the guitar pick she used to use every time she stepped onto a new stage. It was her favorite guitar pick until she gave it to her favorite person in the world.
The introduction sounds, guitar chords.
\- Good evening, thank you all for coming. My name is Paola Ferrer. – She spoke in front of the microphone.
The confidence and the reason to give herself to music injected her hands with energy and she began to play the first arpeggios. The first chord came out in unison from the drums and bass.
\- The next song is an original by Heart. And I want to dedicate it to a person who is not with us tonight.
The chords on her guitar began to grow along with the vibration of the percussion. The violinists of the Orchestra waited for their moment to play in crescendo. Paola closed her eyes and sang with a voice that rose, burning and shining until it filled her lungs and pumped the adrenaline that she now felt running through her veins. She sang until she climbed to the lowest scales of the soprano and completely flooded the place with her voice, a voice that seemed to come from another place. She closed her eyes and began to sing.
No other love…
Paola was in a hotel room in Caracas, Venezuela. The illuminated letters of “Hotel Madrid” decorated the entrance of a small white building located on the outskirts of Plaza Venezuela. It was a cold night, and Bicho and she had walked for blocks and blocks in search of a place with available rooms to spend the night. Finally they arrived at that place, prudent and hidden, that far from being neglected and having a dubious hygiene in its rooms, was comfortable and cozy.
\- Let me read what you have written - I asked her, looking at the poems in her book of poems by García Montero. Between the pages of the book, some words, handwritten, bordered the collection of poems.
\- I am embarrassed, they are not ready yet - Bicho admitted - Her blond and wavy hair wrapped around my legs, I caressed her cheeks while reading the poems, but she tried to take the book away from me. I dodged her hand smiling and held it between my knuckles, she remained calm feeling the warmth of our intertwined fingers. Then I read out loud.
No other love… Darling I´m flying
\- Once they asked me when your birthday was. When I answered that it was May 13th, a tear escaped from my eyes. I wiped it away immediately so that no one would think I was a freak for crying silver glitter, and for crying when I mentioned a date…
Paola sang with her eyes closed and La Sala, Seville, and the world ceased to exist. Now she was only in a place she had once known during her life as a star, or that perhaps was only the memory of some dream.
No other love, Darling I´m flying
No other love, Darling I´m flying
\[1\] Whisky Caravan – Chica Carmín