Bridging The Gap

When we were holed up in Barcelona was when it started. Every nuance associated with you had slowly but surely become the bane of my existence. That's the thing about you. You're imagination was aging, and not in a good way.

You used to leave notes on your pillowcase so that I had something to wake up to. I should've known then that that was the sign of a fling. Sure, it was romantic in the moment, but romance like that always has an expiration date. Or maybe it's not the romance that has the problem with definition. It's creativity. You can't be creative forever. I think that's what we've learned here.

The sad thing about it is the moment you stopped leaving the notes here in our bedroom was that I had an irking sensation that you were leaving them elsewhere, in another room across this predictable city, in a room sweaty with the scent of your infidelities and obvious restlessness. I was certain that she was probably very similar to me. It was just that she didn't say as much--and she was younger of course.

For a moment or two I was jealous. But inevitably, jealousy turns to boredom and if you're smart, like me, boredom paves the way for innovation.

It was a Tuesday when I was boarding the ferry when I overheard some women discussing the double homicide on the front page of the Avui. Bragging was overrated, I thought to myself. But then again, you said you fell for me because I knew I was ahead of the curve.