Miserable At Best
Two weeks seems like an eternity when you feel like you are slowly dying of a broken heart. The loneliness is an uneasy feeling- not that you have never been lonely before but relearning how to be alone after being consumed by love is not easy. A dull ache resonates within you after every breath, thought, and action. The weight of the world is on you, suffocating you, drowning you. Hiding isn’t an option, because everyone wants to talk to you, take a picture with you, score an autograph, and everything else that comes with fame. You just want to be alone physically so your mental anguish can be addressed without the whole world watching.
“David?”
Looking up from your intense staring at the water glass, you see concerned chocolate eyes staring up at you. Another jolt of pain. This the woman you have known since childhood, who shared your love of the beautiful game and eventually married you and bore the two most perfect daughters you could have ever hoped for. But somehow, somewhere along the way, you fell in love with someone else. Loving someone else doesn’t mean you don’t love Patricia, but they are two different types of love. At least, that’s what you tell yourself so you don’t feel like a cheating bastard every time you and your lover are entangled in a sweaty heap of limbs, panting and gasping for breath.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?”
Your wife frowns and the guilt multiplies. Did she have her own dreams when she was younger? You often wonder if being a footballer’s wife made her give up her own ambitions. Sure, women often dream of wealthy husbands, but they don’t dream of husbands who are gone for long periods of time leaving them to care for small children all alone. They don’t dream of dodging cameras and reporters. And they certainly don’t dream of their husbands cheating on them with other men.
“I’m worried about you,” she says softly, voice nearly drowned out in the loud restaurant. “Ever since we’ve moved here, you’ve not been yourself.”
She’s right, but she has always been able to read you like a book. You want to tell her, so your guilt is lessened, but you’re afraid. You are afraid she will leave you and you will never see her or your beautiful daughters again. No, you know she would never be cold as that. The woman you love would cry, but for you instead of because of you. She would cry for your pain and forgive you because she is the most loving and compassionate person you know. You don’t deserve her.
“I talked to Olalla yesterday,” she continues when you don’t respond. “Fernando has seen Silva a few times and is worried about him. Apparently he’s having a difficult time adjusting.”
You jerk slightly when she says his name. For a brief second, you see his face, and the loneliness dissipates. A wonderful feeling overcomes you, like you’re being lifted to a place without all the pressure and no one is watching your every move. A sigh escapes your lips when the emptiness returns. Everything reminds you of him and hearing his name, and the fact that he is also miserable, makes your heart ache.
“You miss him?”
“I miss all of Valencia,” you say carefully, not wanting to betray your carefully guarded secret.
“You should call him; Olalla thinks it would help him.” You nod and she lifts her eyebrow in a way only women who are mothers are able to do. “I’m serious. Maybe he can pull you out of your slump.”
All you can think is how he put you in your slump to begin with.
* * *
Buenos Aires is much colder than Barcelona and the heater in the room is going full blast. The bed is a tangled mess of sheets and you grin to yourself, thinking of what transpired on it the night before. The furiously paced kisses, the torn clothing, hearing his moans as you pushed into him, and the way pleasure wrote itself across his face as he came crying your name.
But now the morning has come and everyone must return home. You don’t want to go back to Barcelona because the new city doesn’t feel like home. He doesn’t want to go back to Manchester because he is not used to the English way of life. At least in Barcelona they speak your language and you have friends from the National Team. In Manchester, everything is cold and grey and Silva has no one. You have your wife and your children; he lives alone in a one bedroom flat. Fernando, Pepe, and Cesc promise to visit him, but it is a long drive to just hang out.
He comes out of the bathroom and immediately you know something is wrong. His eyes are glossy, as if he is trying not to cry and when you question him, he takes a steadying breath. Closing the space between the two of you, Silva reaches up and pulls you down for a kiss. You expect a fiery, moan inducing exchange, but are surprised with the sweet, slow and lingering kiss he gives you. There is wetness on your cheeks and when you pull back, you see he has started crying.
You ask him why he is crying and he shakes his head. His dark and exotic eyes rake over your face as he traces his hand down your cheek, as if trying to remember you in this moment. Out of his pocket, he pulls a piece of paper and presses it into your hand.
Standing on his toes, he presses his lips against yours one more time, and mumbles “Goodbye Villa,” before grabbing his suitcase and hurrying from the room like he’s been burned. After a minute, you realize he means goodbye forever.
* * *
“David?” You jerk out of your memories and your wife smiles sympathetically. “Let’s go home. I think you need some sleep.”
“I’m sorry Patricia,” and you mean it- this was supposed to be your date night since her parents were watching the children.
“Love, you never have to be sorry,” she kisses you on the cheek and again you are overwhelmed by her capacity to love and forgive. “I just want you to be happy.”
“I love you,” you tell her and she pauses, as if unsure what brought your uncharacteristic show of emotion.
“Remember that when Olaya cries in the middle of the night next time,” she winks at you, drawing a rare (these days) laugh from your lips.
You extend your elbow to her, and leave the restaurant arm in arm, the picture of a perfect marriage.
* * *
You wake up in the middle of the night, flushed and troubled from your dreams. Unwrapping yourself from your wife, you silently float downstairs. From the cabinet of DVDs, you pull a movie you know that Patricia would never watch, from its place and remove the letter Silva wrote you from inside it. This will be the 47th time you will read the letter and the 47th time a needle will enter your heart.
Most of the letter is an unorganized and chaotic apology and explanation of why he can no longer be with you. Two words stick out more than any other- the first is the word ‘whore’ and the second word is ‘love’. Together, they form a part of a sentence that repeats itself over and over again in your head:
‘… and a whore isn’t supposed to fall in love.’
You feel so hollow when you read those words and you are not sure what is worse- the fact that he felt like a whore or that he never told you he loved you. Or maybe the hollow feeling is caused by the guilt of never telling him that you returned the feeling.
Outside, the stars are barely visible through the lights of the city. You wonder what he’s doing right now and if by chance, he is looking up at the sky. You hope he is, because the image of the man you love staring at the stars with that loose, absentminded smile on his face is breathtaking and you’re having trouble breathing anyway.