UNDER THE BRIDGE

I went into the back of a taxi, gave the address of my hotel to the driver and relaxed. It had been a long day, having travelled from Majorca to Madrid to go to a concert and meet some friends. It was late, as we had been partying in some pubs until 3 am. I was wearing a skirt and a black top under an open jacket.

I wasn't drunk, I was more tired than anything. I just wanted to get to my hotel and sleep. The driver started asking me questions to which I answered politely with a Yes, I don't know or a No, so that he could notice I wasn't in the mood to engage in conversation.

The questions went from weird to weirder. He went from asking if I had had a good time that night, to ask me if I had received many sexual propositions. He started to smoke, which is forbidden in Spain, and I started to feel nervous. I looked out of the window, hoping to recognise the streets we were driving through, hoping to reach my destination. I started to wonder if we were driving in the right direction. I started to hope we were.

At this point he was speaking on his own while I tried to ignore him. He went on and on saying that it was a pity I hadn't hooked up with anyone that night, that I was probably out there looking for sex and that he could have sex with me if that is what I wanted, that he knew of a quiet place we could go to, where nobody would disturb us.

I said: No thank you, I just want to get to my hotel.

Suddenly I saw my hotel and felt relieved.  But the driver didn't stop. He drove into a smaller and quieter street, stopped the taxi and locked the doors. He looked at me and I saw the look in his eyes. I knew that look. I had seen it before. The look of an animal with an urge.

He came onto me, half of his body on mine, one hand touching my breasts and the other one under my skirt. I didn't move. He mumbled that I wanted him and that I would receive the sex I deserved. I avoided his mouth and kept saying: No, I am not looking for sex, I just want to go.

He stopped and went back to his seat. He showed me his dick and started touching himself. He came onto me again, saying that I wanted his dick, that I was a whore who was asking for it. I could feel his cold filthy fingers on my skin. I didn't shout. I didn't cry. I kept saying: No, thanks. I just want to go.

And then something happened. He stopped. He went back to the driver's seat. He asked me if I was sure I didn't want to have sex with him. I said I was sure and gave him the money for the ride. He stared at the money in his hand for a minute or two, -God knows what he was thinking. And then he unlocked the doors and I went out. I started to walk fast to my hotel and didn't look back.

I felt disgusted about the incident, but I didn't feel bad about myself because I had done nothing wrong. If anything I felt lucky.  Had I been drunk, had I been a tourist or had I been a young girl I am sure I would have been raped, or worse.

Some people have asked me why I didn't note down the license plate number. Excuse me for just wanting to run away, go into the hotel and lock the door behind me.

Some people have asked me why I didn't go to the police to report the incident and give a full description of the assailant. Well, I was not in my city and I just wanted to put it all behind.

Everybody deals with these things in their own way. I simply found the way to live with what happened. But then again, I was lucky. Really lucky.

I just hope I never see that look in a man again.

NOVEMBER RAIN

It's November again. One year since we last kissed.

We used to be puppets whose strings got attached every time our eyes met. Puppets that came to life every time our lips kissed. The feeling of freedom would drive us to do crazy things, things that we would never do in our perfectly controlled daily lives. Things we did and then we would regret.

The things we didn't do are now the ones I regret the most.

As a puppet I didn't have a heart in me, but when you came my way I could feel it aching for you. Though it wasn't love, -puppets can't love. Your kisses awoke me, made me feel special, different, unique. To me, you were special, different, unique. Left to our own devices we would toy with each other as if there was no tomorrow, until someone pulled our strings back to place.

It's been a year since you left me in my bed. You left and never looked back. You decided to avoid my way so that our strings would not intertwine. Puppets can't feel, but it hurt every time you stepped back.

Emptiness filled the space where my heart had once grown.

It's been hard for me to follow your puppet show once a week. So close and so far away, jealous of all the Judys that surround you on the show, jealous of all those girls in the audience. The pain is so strong as to break me inside.

It's November again. One year since we last kissed. I see you in pictures and I don't know who you are anymore. I see myself in the mirror and I don't know who I am anymore.

Just a broken puppet.

BUTTERFLIES

There he is, in his checked shirt, smiling, as usual. He makes me smile. When I'm around him I feel like a girl;  I giggle a lot, touch my hair and say whatever comes to my mind. He's unattainable, of course, he made that clear some time ago, but still, it's nice to have a crush on someone. And to feel butterflies in my stomach. 

There she is, dressed in one of her girly dresses. This one is short. I think that if she bent a little I could actually see her underwear. God, now I have that image in my head. She's nice, but definitively not my type. And she's a co-worker. I never do co-workers. Co-workers are off-limits. But she does have nice legs, and she's funny, and clever. She's a good girl, that's what she is. And definitively not my type.

His hair is shorter than usual, I can't help but teasing him about it. We laugh. You know, some girls fall for the looks. I myself usually fall for the looks. But this time is different. He is fine looking, but there's something else. He's easy to be with and he gets me. He really does. Like no one else has done before. And he makes my eyes shine.

She's looking at me. I don't know what to say. She looks tired. I give her a smile and listen to what she says. She talks a lot. About anything. I can see she's shy. I sometimes think she might like me. At least that's what it looks like. But then again, I might be wrong. Maybe she just wants us to be friends. I mean, she actually talks about other guys sometimes. She wouldn't do that if she liked me, would she?

He types something on the computer, answers the phone. I watch him in silence. I don't need to fill up this silence. It feels good. He asks me about my weekend. I tell him I met a guy. He makes a funny face. I ask him about his weekend. I feel a slight pang in my stomach fearing he's gonna say he has met someone special. But he never does. 

I wonder what she is like in bed. She's one of these girls who looks like a lady to everyone but to her lover. Anyway, I told her once I don't date co-workers. There are plenty of nice girls out there to have sex with. But this girl is different. She intrigues me. I feel easy and uneasy when she's around. I don't have feelings for her, that's for sure, but I miss her when a few days go by without her presence. Maybe what I miss is the attention she pays to what I say or do. She makes me feel good.

Just thinking of him lights up my eyes. I know it's never gonna happen, but he would make a good boyfriend. We would be good together, in and outside our bubble, though I can see he has a temper. I'm not that naive. But I could deal with it... 

Well, I need to stop dreaming, but in the meantime I'll enjoy the "what it could be if..." stage. Until someone wakes me up. Meanwhile, I'll enjoy my butterflies.