Lost in waves (collection of sex, drama and love stories) by Marcelo Galban (black books to read .txt) 📕

At first she did not see him, she only heard a noise near her and then a few sobs like a tired dog. Then she could see well. A man was sitting in one of those armchairs, about fifteen feet away, with both legs raised leaning on the back of the front row. He was staring at her, from the side, his mouth a little open and his eyes crinkled as if he was trying to get a better look at her. Little Mrs. Jones was not scared. She was struck by those two bright spots in the dark, looking at her in the same way that other eyes on the street had sneakily peered at her before, as if they were lit and dead at the same time. The man's body jerked back and forth a little, as if he were trembling, or he was sick. His pants were low, the sleeves were rolled up at the ankles, and his legs were bare. The man stretched out his arm to call her, but little Mrs. Jones was already running towards the light that she saw from the street, she was tumbling through the construction fence and crossing the square towards her house.

She had never told anyone this story, and she had never returned to that theater, even when the authorities had inaugurated it with great fanfare at an event that encompassed the entire town of Greenfield. And whenever she walked down that street, even though years had passed, she would hurry or run. Mrs. Jones did not really know why she remembered all that now, she was the first to arrive at that pre-boarding lounge, so she finally sat down in the first closest seat and got ready to wait. Her hands were shaking, she hadn't eaten anything since the bus had stopped in the middle of that desolate road, where she had taken the opportunity to go to the bathroom and have a dirty coffee at the service station bar; now she did not dare to move for fear of losing the flight, the plane could suddenly begin to taxi down the runway and leave her there. From now on, she would not take her eyes off the metallic ball of the microphone where another United employee should announce the flight number 1,800 and 16 bound for the city of Atlantic City.

A moment later, the pre-boarding hall was packed with people, as if all the passengers had arrived almost at the same time, but at this time she was already walking through that glazed tunnel that moved with the wind. She made the effort to smile at the welcome from the flight attendant, and as she entered the aircraft felt a sweet, heavy odor in the air that ran through the vents. She walked a few more steps, and settled into her seat. She fastened her seat belt, and was tempted to remove her shoes, but didn't; her guts were churning with hunger, yet she was trying to keep a smile, as if someone were suddenly going to appear to take a picture of her. No one sat next to her, luckily or unfortunately, and half an hour later the plane began to move, rolled along the path parallel to the runway, stopped at the headland, and the pilots prepared to make it take off. From the control tower someone reported the weather conditions, the wind speed, the height that the plane should take to go out of the radars. Patrice's hand searched inside her bag for the smooth surface of the picture frame she was carrying. She looked out the window, and the night was filled with old images: the landscape became a distant and hostile place, as if everything was reduced only to the uncomfortable preparation of that precise moment where the plane would leave the ground forever. Suddenly there was a roar, the sound of the turbines at full power. The plane shook and lunged forward, and a centrifugal force smashed her against the back of her seat. That sensation reminded her of Oliver's weight on her own body, the creaking of the wood on her bed, the swaying of the photos on the nightstand. Far from exciting her, that memory left her paralyzed with terror. Mrs. Jones closed her eyes. They were in the air, already. Flying to Atlantic city had been an impulse, a sudden obsession that had promised to take her away that feeling of having lost everything, like when you stare through a rifle scope and the rest of the world disappears, and just what you want to achieve remains in focus, even if it is to destroy it with the impact of a bullet. That is why she traveled, to destroy what was left alive inside her. Then she remembered Oliver, these last words that she had heard him say, without representing the indication of what he would do hours later. And without being able to avoid it, in silence, she began to cry again.

It had been necessary to leave that town, to travel in that aluminum cylinder thousands of miles anywhere, to Atlantic city, for example, to the moon or Mars. Staying there, in the house where they had lived all those years, under the cruel gaze of all those people in Greenfields was unbearable.  Oliver was no longer in her life. And now Mrs. Jones wanted to be able to hate him for that, for that decision he had made, for having abandoned her. The plane began to lose altitude, as it approached its destination, some ailerons were raised on the wings to correct the course a bit, and the pilot decided that it was time to lower the landing gear; As she did so, there was a hum similar to the noise that a vacuum cleaner usually makes, and that sound alerted Patrice, who became restless in her seat and looked out the window. On the other side of the glass you could see nothing but a huge gray sheet that covered the Earth. Mrs. Jones turned her gaze inside the plane, tried to calm down, looked at the screen in front of her eyes, embedded in the front seat, and paid attention to the little plane that was flying on a digital map. Her town, Greenfields, had been so far away that in a way it had ceased to exist.

They would soon land at the Atlantic city airport, it was around eleven in the morning on a Friday. The hostesses were picking up some trays while the hot smell of coffee mixed with different perfumes in the air. Mrs. Jones smoothed her dress a little, and adjusted her handkerchief. She hadn't slept since he had left home, as if indulging in sleep was some way of giving up. The plane shook, rocked to the right, some mechanical noises were heard, and then returned to its original position. It was winter outside, and the rain-filled leaden clouds kept out of sight the runway; the pilots used the instruments of the plane to stabilize the ship, and to position themselves according to the indications that came to the vector system. After a few minutes, the plane began to descend with more intensity, Patrice's ears plugged a bit, and suddenly they were rolling down the runway. There was some applause, and the hostesses rose from their seats and began pacing the aisles to make sure everything was okay. Then Mrs. Jones reached inside her bag and tightly held the picture frame where she carried Oliver's photo. Everything happened very fast, now, the thoughts suddenly took the speed which the plane had transported her through the air, and the sensations also became uncontrollable, as if something inside her had detached and was running through her body in freedom, may be for the real first time.